Conquering the Heart of a HalfDevil
by Trinity Archangel
Summary: DantexTrish. DantexOC. There is no logic in love. My first attempt at romance. Dante's decisions may leave him completely loveless. T for sex, violence, language. I can't seem to find my own story on here!
1. Prologue

Conquering the Heart is a story I wrote several years ago and never published, as I was toying with the idea of an obvert TrishxDante. I had written about them with subtle hints of intimacy before, but because I added an OC from another story, I never bothered to post it. Trinity was a conflicting Devil Dante and Trish met several years ago. She is killed before giving birth to Dante's son, his greatest competitor and at the end of the sequel, Devil's Never Cry, the cause of his handicap and mental instability. This story takes place several year after this occurrence, Dante has retired and is making a living as a legend in fictional city Orléans. It is not necessary to know exactly who Trinity is, you will come to know her. Hang in there, and suddenly, life and love hang in the balance. I have yet to find the finale in me. Know that these devils don't seem to age as we do, know that nothing stays dead for too long. This is a prototype at best, and please pardon the editing notes if any remain. Please enjoy, please review,Conquering the Heart of A Half-Devil

[Prologue:]

Trish covered her head between two pillows to suppress the screaming that found its way down the stone corridors to her room. She tried to ignore it but it was almost impossible with the haunting echo of Dante's scream piercing her ears. Even with the pillows over her ears, it barely did anything to make them tolerable. She popped open her eyes, waiting patiently for him to realize that it was just a dream. But chances were he was still sleeping. There was a long pause where, the echoes of his voice faded out and throbbed gently in her ears and Trish assumed the worst had passed.

Her blue eyes fluttered closed again for only a moment when the screaming started back again and she sighed in defeat. Routine for her now, she sat up lazily, neglecting bedroom slippers or robe and started down the hallway to Dante's room. It was pure darkness there at night, but from habit she knew where to avoid what and managed to make it safely to his bedside without error.

He was seizing terribly, his face wet with the sweat of night terrors. Gently, so not to startle him, she called out to him softly, all the while patting his clammy hand.

"Dante...Dante…Wake up. What do you see?" His eyes popped open blankly and the violent shaking subdued in an instant. He blinked, still in a comatose stare that would frighten the devil himself.

"What do you see, Dante? What do you see?"


	2. Mr Holland Meets Monsieur Dante

Mr. Holland Meets Monsieur Dante

Even now, Dante was no closer to society than he was when he lived in Sredne Kolymsk. Eight years ago after his son had nearly crippled him, selling his business and moving to France to start Devil Arms was the best investment decision he'd ever made. Custom weaponry had made him more money than he ever fathomed possible with Devil Never Cry, and now he was miles away from the business birthplace that nearly brought him death.

His current dwellings in the secluded aristocratic city side of Orléans he bought for cheap because the people were more superstitious than imaginable; the mansion first belonged to a count that had been murdered terribly and hung in the ballroom from the chandelier. Dante was not fazed. That was centuries ago, and, despite the haunting reputation the home had, it seemed to house a man with prestige, power, old money and a modern gothic liking. This could not be more wrong. A man with dark secrets, anti-social tendencies, short-tempers and borderline dementia was a more suitable and accurate description.

A cobblestone entranceway ran from the stone front steps down to the black gate guarding the house that still read in very bold lettering, _CONSTANTINO BENIOT_. Gargoyles stared with sniper eyes atop all corners of the castle that greatly resembled a cross between a schizophrenic Frank Lloyd Wright and Martha's Vineyard. There were areas he had yet to explore of the home he lived in for seven years. Green moss and ivies strangled the old house and even on the sunniest days, the décor frightened off potential visitors. But Dante was not alone. He lived with the reason his business was still striving: Trish.

It was Trish who promoted the up keeping of all twelve rooms, the touch up of the painted ceilings in the grand ballrooms and library, the refinishing of the mahogany furniture and reassembly of the stone fireplace that was frequently used. It was Trish who turned the castle into a home and made the inside more welcoming than the exterior. It was she who soothed the savage breast of the beast she lived with. Truly, aided with her unquestionable good looks, Devil Arms would thrive for forever and a day.

"Come in," Trish called sweetly from the eighteen- foot ladder she balanced on in the immediate entranceway. She unscrewed the dead bulb and started to replace it when the heavy mahogany double doors swung open and a young gentleman entered, coat draped over his arm. He glanced up at her at the top of the ladder and his brows raised in alarm. He rushed to steady the base of the ladder at once.

"Mademoiselle, that is quite the height!" He exclaimed in a noticeable English accent. Trish smiled down at him and scurried down the ladder.

"Just changing a light bulb. What can I do for you?"

The young gentleman tipped his hat gracefully and presented Trish with a receipt. She wiped her hands on her pants and took it, offering the man a seat, which he so humbly and politely refused.

"I'm guessing the store in Douai didn't have it, so they sent you here." Trish handed him the receipt.

The man nodded, handsome smile spread across his face.

"That was some trip then," she started, taking from him his coat and hanging it up on the coat rack.

"I don't mind, Orléans is a beautiful city!" In truth, it was, for the mere fact that Orléans was culturally stubborn. From 1575, the décor of cobbled streets, the old language, architecture, mannerisms and transportation had barely been touched by the influence of modern culture. If ever the need for upscale technology, neighboring cities carried what they desired. After the third World War (what Dante knew to be Armageddon), realization that certain commodities could be snatched from them at any moment kicked in and there was an almost unanimous decision to reverse life to what is was in the 1500's. So 16th century it was that tourists were constantly there in utter amazement that a people could live like they lived without religious justification.

"Your home is also beautiful, Mademoiselle. I'm surprise you've electricity!"

Trish smiled broadly at the compliment. "I'll go get Dante."

She turned to leave but much to her surprise, the gentlemen caught her gently by the elbow and watched her turn to face him. He seemed astonished or even bedazzled.

"Say you Dante? I say, I do believe I thought the gent to be a myth! He is the Lord of this marvelous castle?" Trish nodded.

"And the rightful owner of Devil Arms."

"I must say I'm quite excited to meet him. I didn't think him to be stable."

Trish smiled again, grimly this time. "He's not," she mumbled softly, starting to the side door to the courtyard. The young man waited patiently in the foyer, too caught up in the interior design to hear her under breath retort.

Trish walked over to the red motorcycle parked in the midst of courtyard and called out to the figure hunched over on the other side, metal wretch in hand. She could see faintly his white hair just above the black leather seat.

"Dante, you got a customer here." He glanced over the top of the cycle at her, looked up once and nodded.

Trish passed through the foyer again to retrieve the ladder and mentioned to the man that Dante would be with him soon. He nodded and thanked her graciously, watching the blonde haired beauty depart into the next room with the towering ladder teetering between her arms.

"Can I help you?" A man's voice came from his left, and he turned to face it. Dante started toward him, a metal walking staff gripped firmly in his right hand.

"Monsieur Dante? Evenin'!" The man exclaimed, starting toward him immediately. Dante stopped walking when he saw the man approaching him in a hurry.

"May I offer you some assistance, gent?" He asked, offering his elbow to Dante who declined his offer firmly.

"No."

His face was lit with astonishment. "My God…I expected you to be a senile ol' man! You must be ten years my senior at most!" Dante grunted.

"Marvelous home you have here, Monsieur Dante, marvelous!" The man went raving on as if he were speaking to a celebrity.

"Where is your receipt?" Dante asked calmly. He watched the man pat his pockets frantically, finger out the receipt from his shirt pocket and hand it to him.

"By the way, the name's Holland, John Holland." He grabbed Dante's hand and shook it eagerly, crumbling up the receipt much to Dante's displeasure.

"Oh, sorry. Sorry. It's nice to meet the legendary Devil Hunter. In person- I mean." He finally let up enough to let Dante take a good look at the receipt.

"Follow me," Dante ordered, heading towards another room. Holland followed right at his heels like a loyal dog. The repetitive clanking from Dante's staff striking the floor caught his attention and he bent over and tapped indiscreetly at Dante's bad leg.

"What's happened to you, mate?" He asked, looking up into the insulted eyes of the half devil that glared impatiently at him. Dante caught his gaze finally and didn't break it until he was sure the man was uncomfortable and had caught his drift. Holland swallowed softly.

"Bad break," came the flat retort as he dashed his eyes away. The questioning, however, seemed relentless as Dante unhooked the weapon of choice from the wall before him.

"Is this the weapons room?" He asked, turning about and looking at the assortment of weaponry on the walls and out-of-this-world trophy heads. He caught himself immediately.

"Of course it is." He completed his circle and reached for the sword Dante held out to him. The moment he felt the entire weight in his hands he staggered and the sword's edge dropped to the floor and scraped innocently against the ground. He flushed red in embarrassment.

"Well, thank you. Thanks." With some difficulty, he propped the sword against a nearby footstool and reached into this pockets again for a folded check. Dante took it from him; narrowing his brows at the intense stare Holland was giving him.

"Funny, isn't it?" He asked.

Dante quirked a brow, awaiting further explanation.

"How you gave up a trade you spent half your life doing to look for a girl. Love is funny, right?"

Dante felt his face tighten at the mention, his muscles tense. Mr. Holland seemed to be mocking him.

"It's funny though, isn't it? Trinity must be some girl."

Dante extended his hand to Mr. Holland one last time and forced for him an insincere half- smile that Holland took to be authentic. He grasped it as firmly as he could in a failed attempt at matching Dante's accidental strength. Dante's smile broadened as Holland tried to pull his hand back.

"It's funny how I never mentioned her name. And yet you knew it." Dante did not loosen his grip. Holland pulled back a second time and successfully freed his hand.

"Trinity, is it?! That's quite lovely for you bloke, especially since there's a lady in town that goes by that name."

Dante suddenly seemed interested, although he could not help but be skeptical. What sense did it make that he'd spent the last eight years searching for her and here she was right under his nose the moment he'd stopped looking?

"How so?" He hid his excitement well although hope shone out in his pale eyes.

"Well it's good to see some life in you after all, Monsieur." Holland scratched his head and paused momentarily to try his hand again at the sword at his feet. With a mighty grunt he swung it over his shoulder with the flat part lying against him.

"I'd say the last I spotted her was south of here, on my way in. Quite the exotic beauty, she was. So I offered the poor wench my coat, you see. Gets awfully chilly nights, wouldn't you say?" Holland didn't even wait for a response. He learned quickly that Dante didn't speak much regardless.

"She declined but asked me about a devil hunter whom I thought to be fictitious but-here you are right front m' nose! If only I'd have known then." He paused again, shaking his head regrettably. "Wouldn't take a damn thing from me, but she did give me her name. Familiar with it?" He asked. Dante shook his head slowly.

"Mr. Holland, I'd say you know your myths well. I assume you know the way out?"

Holland blinked then nodded knowingly. "Right. Right. I shan't trouble you to walk me." He nodded down at Dante's staff and turned towards the exit. "Good day, Monsieur Dante. Good day!"

In silence, Dante watched the young Mr. Holland make his departure with a simple grin about his simple face, waving frantically all the while trying to steady the heavy sword on his shoulder.


	3. Coming to Terms

Coming to Terms

Dante was completely skeptical. Trinity had died thirty- three years ago tragically-at the edge of the sword by a Nero Angelo. How could she be asking for him? Still, he was cynical of his own skepticism-and it was this skepticism that compelled him from the house that he turned into a sanctuary to seek refuge from the outside world.

It was utterly impossible for Trinity to be alive.

By the time he'd fastened the buttons on his jacket, he'd convinced himself that he was leaving the house solely to find out who this imposter was, not because there was an inkling of hope in him that Trinity might be still alive.

Alerting Trish to his whereabouts would do nothing but waste his time- despite her thinking there was a need to accompany him. Though he'd never ventured far from the property more than a few times, he was no invalid: he may have been psychologically touched, but he was not geographically stupid.

The echoing drags of the weather-swelled front doors moaned throughout the home as he slipped through like a shadow in the night. A gust of chilly late-afternoon wind caught him by surprise and he squinted at the setting sun in the distance. With a slight bit of awkwardness, he started down the front steps in such a hurry his staff barely managed to get a grip of the steps beneath him and he stumbled down a few before safely reaching the head of the driveway.

He didn't know why, but his heart pounded in his chest like a distant drum, each beat coinciding with the constant clicking of his staff that barely grazed the ground. He thought himself naïve by the time he'd reached the front gate, tugging in his ignorance before realizing that he had to thrust out to open it. He was just that unfamiliar.

As his first time in months to completely leave his property and officially be in the street among the public, he glanced around him anxiously at the polite strangers that bid him good evening or tipped their hats at him. Never the least bit courteous, he ignored most greetings simply because his mind was racing. He couldn't get to the south side of Orléans fast enough. What if 'Trinity' had gone? What if it was not whom he thought it to be?

Another disadvantage was that he was not fluent in French-thus it was near impossible for him to read the street signs and avenues. He noted a few city workers upon ladders lighting the kerosene lamps in the streets and storeowners closing shop for the day. As foreign as the customs were, he was in no mood to be culturally educated. He was a while yet from the south side of Orléans and dusk would be upon him soon.

Just as he'd stepped from the curb into the street, a careless taxi nearly knocked him over. Irate, he looked up fiercely at the driver and swung his staff violently against the side of the car to get his attention. Frightened, the driver jumped.

The driver immediately started to babble off in French but Dante interrupted him quickly.

"English!"

"Monsieur, I am sorry! Où est-il que vous voudrait aller?"

Thinking that perhaps his unpleasant encounter with the taxi was suddenly best, he climbed aboard ignoring the hand of assistance that the driver offered him. Dante thought hard, and in his best-broken French, requested that the man take him to the south side of Orléans. Then he added contrary of what was expected of him, "s' il vous plait." A bit disgusted at Dante's rudeness, the driver drove off with a solemn expression on his mustached face.

Dante stood lazily leaning against a building corner, staring with fierce eyes at the cluttered mass of homeless denizens across the street. None of the faces belonged to Trinity. Obviously he had wasted his time on a whim. Considering all things tended to halt short of dusk, he figured he'd better leave now before he'd have to foot it home.

He stepped out from the corner and flicked the butt of a cigarette into a nearby puddle of water, jutting his arm into the street to flag down an approaching taxi. The only thing he liked about Orléans was the extra long cigarettes. The driver slowed to the curb.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur. Avez-vous un moment??" Came a feminine voice from behind him. In his agitation, he didn't even turn around to face the voice. Instead, he waved the person away.

"English."

"In that case, would you mind if I caught this ride with you?" It came to Dante as a true surprise that the person behind him spoke English so fluently. He turned around to have a look at the woman and almost immediately she locked eyes with him.

Those eyes, coal black, had been defeated long ago by elements and situations unbeknownst to him. She was a fallen Angel, discarded and depressed by time and scarred emotionally by loneliness. Yet it could not be her, a face he'd seen so many times before in his dreams, a face that had faded so much these past years.

But no one could match those eyes. It had to be her.

Cautious, hopeful, he reached a hand out to touch the possible illusion. When he felt his hand make a physical connection with her face, he could not help but sigh in relief that for once his sanity had not failed him. His eyes danced about excitedly.

"Dante?!" She exclaimed, seemingly skeptical herself. Her voice was quite questioning but Dante's was not.

"Trinity…!"

Now he was almost completely certain. She'd recognized him and he'd felt her. There was no question now she would un- doubtfully follow him. And he would un-doubtfully take her home.

"Trish!" Dante exclaimed, gently beckoning Trinity into the door before him. He pushed in the door behind him and called again loudly, waiting for her to respond.

"What, Dante?" Her voice was coming from the library (and where is the library?). In his excitement, he started to hurry toward the library as she was exiting and the two nearly collided.

"What's the matter?"

"Trish, Trinity is here, in the foyer…"

Trish felt her face fall. So many years living with his illness she supposed he knew better but here he was coming to her with an unsuspecting ramble about Trinity. She sighed deeply.

"Dante," she started sternly, a lot more so than she expected to sound. "You know that's not true-" Her voice got lost when a tattered figure popped up behind Dante and glared at her. Trish raised her brows in surprise, feeling her bottom jaw loose.

"Dante-who is that?!"

Dante could not hide the excitement in his face as he turned to gently grip Trinity's elbow and urge her forward. "It's Trinity…"

Trinity came forward slowly, as if she were a child and Trish was a stranger, but when she neared, she found Trish retreating as if she were watching a ghost. And in a sense, it was a ghost that she was looking at; Trinity had been alive only in memory for the last 8 years.

"T-Trinity…" Trish greeted, slacked jawed and wide-eyed. And still she could not believe that an angel stood before her, seemingly aged by her less than attractive get up, a beggar, a pauper, a directionless traveler. True to her angelic nature, Trinity nodded humbly before Trish and a pleased smile escaped her. Trish was even more surprised to see that Dante too, that devil, had been smiling the entire time.

"Marvelous home…" She turned to face Dante, reached an arm out to him and he took it greedily, trying to mask his trembling hands with a tight grip. "Constantino Beniot."

Dante nodded. "Trish…take her upstairs…settle her in…feed her. For God's sake. Our angel has returned to us…"

The last out of character statement went unheard to the ears of Trinity, but it did not pass Trish without notice and it displeased her in someway. She saw Trinity upstairs, in silence, neither making an attempt to speak to the other for they were both speechless and uneasy, and time had withered the tolerable relationship they'd had so many years before.

Dante found himself anchored below the grand staircase, watching Trish and Trinity make their way up the stairs and disappear to the right somewhere, and it was not until he heard the groan of the pipes running that he turned away and started for his study. He could not nearly contain his amazement, and he thought to pinch himself or splash water in his face but if he was dreaming, if he was hallucinating, he didn't want to be remembered of what was real. Trish had never before been in his dreams, and they never did last this long. At last God had to have been blessing him. He hobbled into his office to look for his record book, hoping that he could find an address or number to reach Mr. Holland and thank that young man for talking entirely too much. But before he could flip though the pages, Trish rapped on his open door and stepped in, discontent look on her face.

"Dante…"

He looked up.

"I don't know how I feel right now, honestly…"

"I know," he interjected.

"It's like she's a ghost…" She leaned in against the doorframe for support and shook the thought from her head. "If I hadn't of seen her for myself I would think that you--"

Dante shot her a look that quieted her at once. She apologized softly.

"It's never been this real to me before. Where is she?"

"Upstairs…" she replied softly, standing up straight again. Dante nodded.

"Dante, if I could, I just—"

Before she could continue, he threw her the house keys and started to her at the door. "Close up business today, will you? Call that old butler and have him come by and cook."

Trish started at his back as he started up the stairs as steadily as he could. "Mr. Agnew?"

Dante waved her off. "Whatever his name is."

Trish was silent for most of dinner, she was listening, mostly, of Trinity's travels, her amazing and almost fictional tale of heaven and hell, purgatorio and paradisio, but nonetheless true for she was cursed with the inability to lie. She did not find herself eating much either, but Trinity compensated mightily, contributing to the consumption of almost half of what was present. After Mr. Agnew, the aging and French- speaking old gentleman came by at this witching hour for Orléans, she had only been in the background of her and Dante's conversations. She had to admit, by dim chandelier light, Trinity, all washed and dressed, was presently the most fair and beautiful creature the world had come to know. She was never as haunting a beauty as Trish , but Trinity was so very striking and attractive, agreeably stealing the best features from both of her opposing worlds. And it was evident tonight, that Dante was conscious of this, the way her subtle touches make him wither, they way her eyes stole the light of the candles burning and in turn scorched Dante so much it weakened him, and most envied of all, was the way she made him smile. Never laugh, Dante could not laugh—complete joyfulness had been taken from him by years and years of his devilish work, but a smile was the next best thing.

Immediately feeling discarded, and innocently jealous and yet, so thankful for Trinity's return because she had already such a medicinal effect on Dante, she felt it best to steal away to bed. Although she doubted they would notice her absence.

"Goodnight." She said softly, rising to leave. Mr. Agnew took to her plate instantly and nodded her off. "Bonne nuit."

Dante looked up at her finally, but only momentarily as he bid her goodnight and Trinity stole his attention again.

"Goodnight, Trish." Trinity blessed.

It was not until Trish's footsteps faded upstairs that they resumed conversation, an inquisitive Trinity dying to get caught up again. She leaned over to Dante who sat, with his bad leg outstretched and facing her, and patted his knee gently. He flinched slightly at her touch, not because it pained him but because she had such a romantic effect on him she would never know. He tensed up.

"What's happened to your leg, Ace?" She seemed almost concerned, as if the accident had happened just now. He appreciated the tender concern in her gentle face, and shrugged his shoulders.

"You've missed a lot." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and did not read the displeasure on her face. Then, he remembered, beneath the surface of happiness, a puzzle piece was missing. Although he did not wish to disrupt the euphoria of just _sitting_ with her, his ignorance troubled him.

"Do you remember?" He asked, leaning forward on his knees. He knew she would catch his drift.

"Of course I do." Her face was a little pained. "I always wonder what's happened to him."

Dante sat silent momentarily, puffing away on his cigarette, a hand resting on each knee. "Show me where they cut you."

Without haste, eager to comply with her Ace's wishes, she lifted the bottom of her top and exposed the warm flesh beneath. There was a diagonal scar from top right rib cage to left hip, an incision so precise only a thin scar kept the history of her assault. Dante stared at it in astonishment, remembering the day he had his vengeance and his brows furrowed in recollection.

"Tell me what happened, Trinity," he said softly, taking her hand. "What were you doing? Where were you going?"

She dropped her shirt and lapped her legs comfortably. "I was going to church to pray you out of purgatory." Her innocence struck him again. Dante frowned greatly and gently squeezed her hand. He did not know how to show much more compassion, though he wished to physically comfort her. She, oblivious to the hidden emotional magnetism he felt for her, squeezed his calloused hand in gratitude.

"I often wonder what he would have looked like," she started sadly.

Dante blew out a cloud of smoke and smiled crookedly, deciding to keep her in the dark about what he knew. He felt it too soon to possibly burden her with facts, so he approached it indirectly.

"Like me, I suppose. With your hair and eyes."

"Maybe your eyes."

"Maybe both," he suggested.

"Do you suppose he would be tall?"

"Impressive in stature. Quick, nimble…dangerous." Dante was simply pulling the least hinting qualities of Adoni.

"Noble?" She added in a questioning tone, pulling the cigarette out from between his lips. She caught his gaze and he nodded slowly to appease her, never opposing to her extinguishing his cigarette.

"Perhaps."


	4. Love, According to Dante

Love, According to Dante

Dante did not scream at all the night of Trinity's return. Trish somehow could not sleep without it and the next morning, it shone in her tired blue eyes, her lethargic movement and laconic responses.

"Did you sleep well at all last night?" Dante asked, not out of concern but irritability after she hung up from a call. He side -stepped Mr. Agnew when he came around him to dust his stuffy office.

"Not much. I'm kind of frustrated that I have to catch up with yesterday's back orders."

"Well, we closed early for a good reason."

"Suit yourself," Trish yawned. "You have a client in about four hours."

Dante stared down at her in his crimson desk chair, watching her lap her long, slender legs lazily and rock in it slightly. He reached out a kind hand and touched her bare shoulder soothingly.

"Watch it," he mumbled, despite his soothing action, his voice was ridden with warning. Trish did not let him see her cut her eyes coldly at him.

"Four hours?" He echoed, looking at the clock above the door. "I'll give Trin a tour of the old place before then."

Trish rolled her eyes. "She's already doing that. Don't you think I could use some help in here?"

Dante shook his head dismissingly. "You're my number one, Trish. You can handle it."

She watched him leave, listening to the clank of his staff thin out and wished she could believe that.

An improvement shone about Dante face and the vast halls of his old mansion, it was obvious that Trinity's angelic touch had inspired change in the place, now all the unlocked room doors were open and sunlight poured in through every window, painting the halls in a specter of light. Currently, his ears were leading him, for a soft score of music was coming from one of the upstairs rooms, and he imagined that Trinity had stumbled upon an old record player he had yet to discover. He had missed her in his sleep, and he could not help but feel his pulse quicken as he approached the room, calling to her softly.

When she did not answer, and he found himself at the door watching the sunlight pour into the room she was in, illuminating the dust that was scattered about the place, and he did not also seem to mind the smell of rotting books and stale air. Neither did Trinity, the beautiful thing was sitting with her back to him, sifting through a pile of vintage records. Lizst, Bach, Brahm, Debussy, Choplin, De Falla. Dante tilted his head inquisitively at her, and again, the smile he fought to conceal escaped, and his eyes danced at the sight of her.

"Good morning, Angel." He greeted. As if he had startled her, she got up to face him, surprised.

"Ace," She greeted.

He leaned on his staff and nodded off at the old gramophone "Do you like it?"

She nodded at him. "Love it," she returned, watching him slowly advance with the aid of his cane.

"You're listening to La vida Breve. My favorite."

He hobbled in, stopping just short of her. She placed her hand over his—the one he held cupping the cane. Dante stood erectly still, tensing as she touched him.

"Do you dance?" She asked him. Dante gave her a slightly unbelieving look.

"You know I don't." He fastened his grip on the cane when he felt her sliding it away.

"I can't," he admitted, drawing away from her.

"Try," she insisted, gently freeing him of his aid. She found it surprisingly heavy, but she propped it against a bookshelf on the far wall. Instantly, Dante shifted his weight to maintain his balance. She took hold of each hand and allowed him to lean on her slightly for support. Her watched cautiously her feet, moving away from him and pausing in wait for him to step up to her. He fared well, leaning against her only when he sought to drag the left leg toward her.

She side-stepped to his left so that he first had to move the bad leg to follow her. He seemed to be concentrating intensely, going along with her little game solely for the purpose to amuse her. She nodded approvingly at his progress, then, much to his surprise, she released him and completely stepped away. Off guard, he staggered but caught himself, leaning on the good leg to keep him upright. He looked toward the shelf for his cane when he released that she'd led him quite away from it.

"Come to me, Ace," she beckoned, gesturing for him to come.

He, at first impulse, wished to call off the exercise and demand his cane, however, at this sight of her calling to him, he thought not. Calling as she had done some many times before in his dreams and in his nightmares. He could not deny her to himself. She had, for some reason other than the obvious, reserved a place in his heart. Not in the sense that Trish had- but he had a longing for Trinity that he never had for Trish. Trinity was someone—in all truth—an angel that made his pulse race. He was drawn to her as a moth to the flame.

Before he could stop himself, he had hobbled forward a few steps, and, snapping quickly from his foolish bliss, he reached out a hand to her for her assistance. She took it, and he, never before holding anything as gently as he held her hand now, pulled her toward him. She came forward, oblivious to his intense and unshakable attraction, and supported him upright. At this moment he wished more than anything for her lips to meet his. He drew her in close to him and rest his chin in the crook of her neck, somehow relieved to feel her returning his advances—or so he thought.

"Ace, one day you'll walk independently again." She pulled away and went to the bookshelf to retrieve his cane. "Too soon to stop fighting."

Speechless, Dante nodded in agreement anyhow. He took the staff she offered him and watched as she bowed humbly before him.

"For the dance," she thanked in a teasing manner, a wry smile on her lips.

Dante lay staring at his scarred, calloused and slightly disfigured hands. The imprint of Alastor's handle had nearly branded him. Yes, he could clench and strangle, but could those same hands be used lovingly, to comfort? He wondered why Trinity had never given herself away to liking him if she indeed did at all. Perhaps it was his face—but Dante had always been handsome. No, he was not self-conscious or egotistical in the sense of vanity, but he was undeniably, devilishly handsome. His lumbering condition, maybe? He flinched slightly at the visual representation that flashed before him. Perhaps it was that-his lack of sanity—the glitch in his decaying memory that flashed a brief image of a past nemesis or dispute. It only took that fraction of a second image to set him on defense.

Maybe it was this that Trinity turned away from, not him, although she did not _know_ about it. The disquieting fact was that he didn't care, not that he didn't want to—but he couldn't. In his eyes, there was no reason why he should repel Trinity. He didn't even know _why_ he longed for her so much, when their brief union, 33 years ago had produced a son, a son who greatly contributed to Dante's current madness. But that was 33 years ago, a union he barely remembered because it was in no way exceptionally sensual or memorable. He had had sex, but never in his life had he made love. Was he ready to start? There came a light rapping of feminine knuckles against his bedroom door. He looked up briefly.

"It's open."

Trish pushed open the door and peeped in.

"What's up? He asked, sliding a black wife beater over his bare chest. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and bent over his knees to fish a motorcycle boot out from under his bed.

"Customer's outside for you," she announced before turning to leave.

"Okay. Hey, Trish, come here." She turned back around and came to him, attempting to hide her slightly hurt countenance. She was successful.

"Help me with this boot, will you?" He was not exactly asking. He threw the shoe at her and she caught it, stooping just between his legs to put the boot on his bum leg. He sat solemnly staring down at her as she took her time adjusting the buckles to his liking. She felt his fingers dancing in her hair and she tensed, sighing heavily to ease the tension within.

"Don't tell Trinity about me, okay?"

Trish felt her face redden immediately and she wished he would stop playing in her hair. It was not for intentions of pleasure but to establish his alpha male position. She was his. In other words, there was no need for him to verbally or physically remind her, so long as _she_ remembered that he, despite his condition, remained dominant. He smoothed out her hair and brought her face up to look at him.

"If it isn't obvious, don't tell her." He glared almost viciously into her blue eyes with his green. She nodded slowly, feeling his fingers tighten against her face. She noticed him dart his eyes frantically about her, looking toward her but not _at_ her. He trembled slightly.

"Dante," she called softly, placing her hands on his forearms. He did not respond.

"Dante," she said firmly, shaking him. He blinked finally and released her, coming to terms again with where he was.

"What did you see?" She asked, concerned look about her. He shook his head apologetically.

"Nothing," he lied partially. He always did see something, but it was never any reoccurring image or segment that lasted long enough for him to place it with a memory or make an association. He reached to the bed where he'd propped his cane and anchored it into the floor to rise.

"Handle this customer, will you? I want to show Trinity around tonight." Trish almost countered his request, but her heart had fallen too deeply the instant he said those words, that she felt she'd have given her hurt away if she spoke.


	5. Discarded

Discarded

Trish touched the amulet around her neck and wondered momentarily if it meant anything at all. She'd known Dante for decades and never was there any more than affectionate partnership and occasional mixed messages between them. She had always been attracted to him since she knew him best emotionally, as calloused as he was. At times she cursed her resemblance to his mother. She was an uncanny beauty, Dante would never deny, but he did not want her as she wanted him or as he wanted Trinity.

She was not envious or jealous of Trinity because she did not see her as a factor in destroying any chance of a relationship. It was not her fault that after all these years Dante had pined so much in his heart that he didn't know what to do with her now that he had her. After all, she had carried his devil son. But Trinity had not been around for the past 8 years of Dante's miserable, lonely and handicapped life. Trinity did not know why Dante's mental condition so rapidly declined, why he could no longer walk without aid, why he hadn't pulled a trigger or why he sold his business. But Trish knew every contributing factor that made him how and who he was today. How could he deny the woman who knew him best?

However, she'd never truly tried to win his heart. But she'd also never had any competition. Even before when Trinity was around, she was number one. Then though, he might not have realized that he loved her, or she him. Love. A word least used in his vocabulary if at all. She doubted if he ever was familiar with the feeling. Dante was confused. He wanted Trinity. But did he _love_ her? But did she, Trish, _love_ him? Perhaps it was love that made her lament in her heart when she saw them together, or when he quicker went out of his way to accommodate Trinity. Trish had been deduced to his servant, but rightfully so? She owed him her life. The world owed him. Albeit hell- spawned, she was nonetheless a woman, and conscious to the fact that Trinity had not yet seen Dante as he saw her.


	6. A Turn for the Worst

A Turn For the Worst

"You love her, don't you?" Trish stated boldly, watching him sift through the mail. He paused for a moment, thinking about what she'd said before he continued without giving her a response. Trish, sitting at the edge of his desk with her arms folded childishly and defiantly across her chest, would not give him the satisfaction of leaving.

"I've never known you to be the jealous type, Trish."

"Concerned."

He ripped open a corner of the envelope and pulled out a bill, eyeing the expenses. There was silence, but when he looked up over his bill, she was still sitting there, glaring at him. He quirked a brow at her persistence.

"Why concerned"

She leaned toward him, tight lipped, until she was nearly nose to nose with him and said, "Because she makes you _nervous._ I'm not accustomed to seeing you acting nearly human."

Dante leaned away from her to free up some personal space and reached for his cane. "Nervous?" He mocked, standing up. She swung her legs across the desk and nodded.

"Nervous like I make _you_ nervous?" He asked. She had no response for him. "You're jealous."

Trish didn't like his response. In fact, she didn't like the fact that he was right even more. She watched him start for the door, hobbling along like a dog with three paws.

"Dante."

He stopped but did not turn around.

"What does this mean? Now that she's back? Will you pick up your sword and resume your devilish work?" [need something here]

"I _do_ grow tired of you, Trish." Dante sighed.

Because his back was turned, he could not see the degree of hurt his statement had caused her. Nor could he sense it.

Dante stood silently in her doorway, lusting, pining, yearning. He had been there, raging against himself to not submit to her voiceless charm, or to draw toward her and be consumed by passion, but it was hard to be a man in desire for an angel, and a devil rebuked by her, especially when she was so loyal to someone he had not been for _years_.

"Do you remember?" He asked, when he could not take it anymore. She seemed initially startled when he spoke, as she did not realize he'd been watching her for so long, but she was not embarrassed.

"Remember what?" She asked, turning in for the evening. She was about to slide under the covers when Dante dashed over, best he could, to lift the sheets for her.

"Thank you, Ace."

He nodded, mesmerized.

"Why did you quit?"

That question came so unexpected and abrupt that he was unprepared to respond. What would he tell her? That his son was his greatest enemy? That their union had left him eternally attached and that for thirty years, a decaying mind and a loveless life had led him to lay down his sword and weep for himself in pity?

He, with a heavy sigh, sat down beside her. "Work became crippling," he quipped. She sought his affection and placed a gentle hand atop the hand that held so fast to his cane, like an old man, it seemed he could not function without it.

"Self pity cripples you."

"Pity? But look at me."

"When I look at you, Ace, I don't see what you see."

"What do you see?" He insisted.

"Perfection."

"…"

She rolled away from him and stared dramatically at the cracked ceiling above her. "We're both empty shells. I have a void in the center of my life you won't fill with description, and you seem to have no end and no desire to see your purpose."

"I think I'll stay with you tonight."

She glared at him out the corner of her eyes, surprised and her turn to be taken off guard by his words. The response was inappropriate to the subject matter. It was also puzzling and filled with mixed messages.

"Why?"

Dante did not leave room for rejection. He was in bed with her in the same moment, gently propping his staff against the lamp stand.

"So you can remember."

So bold it was for him to take a blind leap of faith as he did, but sliding an arm around her to suffer her his affection was greater than any risk he'd ever taken, but the satisfaction of her not shunning him away was unrivaled. Trish was right. She made him _nervous._

So nervous he trembled when she slid her fingers over the scars on his arms. He rested his hand atop hers' to settle her exploring.

He liked it too much.


	7. Making Decisions

Making Decisions

"I heard he met the devil himself."

"I heard he was just a myth." The little boy in suspenders did not bother to hide his skepticism. He walked along the shelves in the weapons room, small fingers running along the intricate grooves in Nightmare Beta and the engraved twin .45 handguns. "He _can't_ be real."

Trish gave the smaller boy a half smile.

"You'd have to be about 1000 years old."

"But he is real." Trish insisted.

"I heard he was seven feet tall."

The younger boy went whisking by Trish's legs, stopping short behind his brother. "Yeah, and he has horns and a tail."

Trish interjected after a short laugh. "No horns, no tail, and seven feet tall –not likely." She touched the older boy on the shoulder to drag his attention away from the adornments on the wall.

"I can tell you though, he doesn't like little boys meddling in his things."

Suddenly, there was a frightened hush over the formerly skeptical boy, and he turned around to face her as if the realization that Dante might be real was terrifying. "So you know him?"

"Quite well."

"Then you must know the angel, Trinity."

Trish barely regarded her mention. Trinity's absence had made her a legend right along side the elusive Dante, but was she significant enough to join them in immortality when her time came? Her heart had sunk again. "Your father is waiting in the lobby."

They scampered out, laughter scattering down the vast halls. She became horribly conscious of the amulet around her neck.

"TRISH."

He was calling to her. She had dreamed of a tender moment when he would call to her with a little less aggression, but it was not this day. What did he need? She started up the stairs, sighing as she approached his room.

"Yes, Dante?" She entered his room, arms folded across her chest, ready to serve. He was leaning into the bathroom mirror, lathering his face in preparation to shave.

"Who was that downstairs?"

"Customer. We need to restock the stores north of here. They keep coming to the house."

The silence she hated so much followed soon after but the light scratching of the razor against his face interrupted it. "So where were you last night?" She asked.

"I was here."

"Not in your room."

"How did you know?" She could see him staring at her through his reflection in the mirror. His piercing green eyes were so bittersweet, so disciplinary and so attractive, so dominating and so tender. He could love. She'd seen it in his eyes before, but they were not directed at her. She wanted to admit that the love bug was ailing her as much as it was ailing him, but her lips were sealed. She had lived without cure for over twenty years.

"Thought I heard you screaming again."

Dante scoffed. "Not since—"

"Trinity," she finished for him.

"Yep."

The confirmation flushed her red with envy and her heart retreated into itself perhaps to hide the desperate pounding, the melancholy thumping that struck her down with each beat. She sighed. What use did he have for her now? Would she ever know the contents of his nightmares? She dismissed herself but he called to her again, tender this time.

"Trish I'm afraid I've neglected you."

"I'm used to it now," she said coldly.

"You liked her before."

Trish raised her brows in revelation. "Did I?"

She read the frustration in his face instantly. "Well, you certainly _tolerated_ her."

"Not like I've tolerated you."

Dante grunted in aggravation, pausing to lean against the sink to steady himself least he say something damaging to her. It had never occurred to him just how fragile she was. He was both surprised and disappointed. When he finally decided to say something in rebuff, she was already pattering down the stairs.

"Monsieur Dante," Mr. Agnew addressed, picking up his plate and trading it for a wine glass. Dante, still unmotivated to learn French, nodded his thank you and began to light up a post dinner cigarette. It was a blue- black evening, scattered stars dotted the sky and a clam and pleasant breeze accompanied him for dinner. It was so lovely, he could not resist the simple pleasure of eating in the courtyard.

"Rouge ou blanc?" Mr. Agnew was referring to the wine. Dante understood that much.

"Rouge."

He dropped his head back and exhaled, watching the white stream of smoke shoot out from between his lips and dissipate in the air. He heard a visitor joining him, and he knew by now the sound of Trish's footsteps. Irritated with her from earlier, he did not raise his head to greet her.

"I need your signature on a few things."

No response. Trish sat silently, looking at him puffing away on his cancer stick and accepted the glass of wine Mr. Agnew offered her.

"Merci." Back to Dante, "I'm not going to play this silent game with you, devil." She took her foot and sharply ran it into his leg for attention. His head shot up instantly and he scowled at her as the pain shot through his body. He sat up, perching the cigarette between his lips and took the papers from her.

"What is this for?" He asked after he'd already signed the first page.

"Inventory." She replied, taking the glass of wine to her lips. His signature was as crippled as his leg. He slid the papers over to her and she took them from him, rising to leave him in peace but she felt his vise-like grip around her wrist.

"What's the deal?"

The grip that fastened her hand was fond now, beckoning her to sit down. She sighed, unable to deny how good the meager concern he was showing for her made her feel. So thirsty she was for his attention that she would accept any form of it. In a way, she felt childish. But there was nothing childish about a woman with desire.

"Dante—"

"What a night," a third voice intruded, wonderment and excitement in it. They looked toward the house where Trinity was shutting the French doors behind her. Trish started to head in but Dante pulled her down into the chair and let her hand go.

"Pardon me if I interrupt."

"If you would give us a mom—" Trish started, but Dante cut her off.

"No."

They traded uncomfortable glances and Dante offered Trinity a seat without getting up.

"Where were you, Angel?"

Angel. Another nickname that drove the knife further into Trish's already wounded heart. How could one man be so oblivious? She forced a smile for her as she sat down across the round iron table from her.

"Touring. This is a far cry from Sredne Kolymsk." She politely reached over to Dante who froze up the moment she drew near to touch him, and pulled the cigarette from his lips. His desire to smoke had been overpowered by his desire for _her_. Before, she could have never escaped with his cigarette. But time had soothed this savage beast and he could not see himself hurting her in any form.

"Dante _always_ has his after dinner cigarette," Trish informed her.

"It's alright." Dante settled.

There was dead silence between the three until Mr. Agnew returned with a third glass and refills. No one spoke until he left again.

"What do you intend on doing now that you're here? Where did you come from?" It was the first legitimate sentence Trish had spoken to Trinity since she arrived. Trinity stared blankly ahead.

"I hadn't thought of it. Whatever my Ace has me do, I suppose." She bypassed the second question.

"Trinity, Dante doesn't fight anymore. What use does he have for a left arm?" Although she tried to sound as sweetly as possible, it was obvious the question was intended for Trinity to feel useless. Trinity was more Angel than devil but the former did not contribute as a hindrance in her road to a impious retort. A wicked smile fixed itself on her lips.

"He found a use for you."

"I _run_ Devil Arms." Trish snapped.

Dante slammed his fist down on the table for attention. "What's with the 3rd degree?"

The devil in Trish shown out in her face; the look she gave Dante was purely wicked. She disappeared into the house with a blink of an eye. The wine in her glass was still settling when the French doors closed behind her. Dante grumbled.

"You should go after her," Trinity suggested.

Dante raised his brows. "Why?"

"She's not mad at me."

Dante dismissed her with a flick of his wrist.

Trinity shook her head. "Do you value Devil Arms?"

"Of course." Dante didn't see her point.

"Then I suggest you make amends with your valuable asset."

Old or tired, Dante wondered as he trudged up the stairs. At first the staff he carried as a third leg made him hate life more than he desired death. The mental games his mind played with him made him an unstable man, a possibly dangerous man, and for a while he was vicious. He was mythical, a hero, a scarred warrior with so many unbelievable stories he could write a book. But word of mouth gave him enough fame or _infamy_ to seclude him and drive his business. Trish had been there from the beginning. He was grateful to her in his own special way but she'd dealt with his callousness for years, why would she start with him now?

When he'd found her in her room it seemed she was over him already, her back was facing him and she was bent over a filing cabinet, filing away customer information. Dante walked in and shut the door quietly behind him. He came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

"You know I appreciate you, baby." He admitted.

She ignored his hand. "I know you do, Dante."

"So what's your deal? You think Trinity is gonna take your position as my number one?" He slid his hand under her arm and lifted her to her feet.

Trish scoffed. It wasn't her position she was worried about. "I only wanted a moment with you."

"You got it." He hobbled over to her bed and took a seat at the corner, resting his cane on the ground.

She pushed in the filing cabinet drawer with her foot and turned to face him. "Honest answers for curious questions."

"Yeah." He fished a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, glad for a free moment of poison.

"Do you recognize me as a business partner?"

"No." He said quickly, shaking his head. He flicked the match into a nearby trashcan and settled the cigarette between his fingers. "You do more than that. You are the business. You run it. You meet with more customers than I ever intend to."

"So I'm an asset?" She clarified, drawing back her curtains to let the moon have its way in her room. Dante scooped up his staff and made it over to her, raking his brain to find placement for the words he wanted to use.

"Don't make this difficult for me, Trish," he begged, sliding an arm around her delicate waist. She nodded.

"You don't help with my insecurities, as a woman. I'm not sure you see me as one."

"Don't be ridiculous," he started, resting his chin on her shoulder. He linked his fingers together and drew her into him, pausing a moment to enjoy the full figured moon. Trish sighed, knowing it was his apology and not his affection. "I wouldn't be standing this close to you if I didn't see you as a woman."

She turned her head to look up at him, taking his fingers in her hand.

"A beautiful woman," he added, parking the cigarette between his fingers again. "But I'm wrestling with something I'm not familiar with right now. Gimmie a break."

"I've been wrestling for decades. What I wrestle with wins every time, which is why I always manage to forgive you."

"Admirable." He flicked a few ashes. A new boldness swept over her. She turned to face him abruptly.

"I know exactly how you feel…"

Dante seemed concerned. "Do you?"

"Am I attractive to you?"

His jaw loosened. He didn't like the way the conversation was going. "Of course." He tried to step back but she went with him.

"Then why do you fight me?"

Dante sighed heavily. He was not the one she needed to be projecting her insecurities upon. He would never and could never deny how beautiful she was, how he did wish for her as a man wished for a woman but only because she was available, and not because he longed for her. For this reason, he could not fight her away.

"Trish, I—"

When her lips met his he did not pull away nor did he respond to her advances. He never expected to be experiencing this moment. It wasn't so much that he didn't want to give in, he didn't want to give in to _her._ But he was a man after all, and he could not fight the tension of his body. Part of him did not want this at all. Part of him did. He pulled away.

"I can't—"

"You don't have to."

Lust drove him to carry on with her, more dominating and demanding than she had ever been prior, and he would not think of the moment to deaden the awkwardness of the situation. But before he knew what was happening it was too late to stop dancing. Crippled but capable, and she was taking something from him that he wanted to give; he just didn't want to give it to her. Now it was far too late. Interlocked in a sexual embrace, the animal in him would not let her go, but he would soon come down from his high, and realization would set in and weigh heavy on an area he currently cared nothing about: his heart.


	8. Still Screaming

Still Screaming

"Dante, wake up!" Trish insisted, shaking his shoulders. "Wake up! What do you see?" The screaming would wake the dead. His eyes were torn open, beads of sweat streaming down his face.

"What do you see?"

He sprang up, the sheets falling over his waist. With a blink, he seemed to return to the situation at hand. He had spent the night with Trish, and the shock came to him quickly and forcefully.

"Dante, what did you see?" She prodded, touching him lightly. He slithered away from her touch instantaneously.

"Shit, Trish." He started looking for his clothes and his staff frantically. The darkness hid the shame and disappointment on her face. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and started to dress himself quickly.

"Don't leave," she pleaded, grabbing his arm. He shrugged her off.

"Shit, Trish. Shit. This was a mistake."

With a sigh, she flopped back onto the bed. "_Why_ are you upset?"

He didn't answer her. He grappled his shirt and jammed his feet into his boots, his face a twist of confusion and anger. What would Trinity think of him now?

"Dante…"

"Please don't."

"Dante…"

"_Please_ don't."

"Just tell me what you saw…you'll be screaming all night."

"Then I'll scream all night!" He barked. She called to him again but the door slamming behind him was her only response. Crushed, she fell into her pillow for solace, fighting the tears that so desperately wanted to come.

"Knock, knock." The voice came to him again in a near whisper. He was powerless as he felt a second presence near him, one he could not see, and he felt it glide over to his bed and hover over his stiff body, calling to him. He wanted to tear open his eyes and verify that there was someone or some_thing_ there. He wanted to scream for attention, so that someone else, _any_one else could enter his room at this moment and meet with this devil that had been possessing his dreams every night. He was not alone, and the stifling mist on his chest was confirmation enough. He suddenly felt very cold, but he was trembling from fear.

"Knock, knock, Dante." The whisper came again, emerging from the bodiless mist, settling on his skin like some succubus with a more vital intent. He could not move at all although his body was in pure panic.

"_Let me in._" It demanded. "_Let me in."_

The knife that drove through Dante's heart was as everlasting and as painful as any sword that had struck him before. He had screamed all night; but Trish was not there to rescue him, to comfort him, to lull him to sleep with her compassion because he had selfishly destroyed it in a lustful union that did nothing to better themselves. How could he not love Trish the way he craved for Trinity? Dear God, he should have done anything and everything in his power to distance himself from her, to be stern and straight forward about the unshakable and undeniable attraction he had for another woman, a goddess, an angel.

He sat at the edge of his bed and ran his fingers through his hair. After last night, who was there to love him? Truly _love _him? Trish had fallen into routine acceptance of his deteriorating condition and she had known him best for decades. No one knew him better than she did, she could ruin him, she could help him excel. But Trinity had been absent during a major part of his life, she knew nothing, and he told her nothing. How could she be attracted to a liar? An unstable devil: a callous man who kept secrets from her? A man who had both given her life and taken it away? A man who suffered silently with a soul teetering within reach of hell? How could she love someone like him? And how could he desire someone like _her_ and yet, not Trish? He did not know why but he  
knew that there was no logic in love. Again, he wasn't sure if he loved her after all. But he wanted her so desperately his loins burned when she was near. Burned like hell fire.

"Ace, is everything alright?" Trinity's concerned voice met his ears and it was as if life had been breathed into him again. But not enough to tear him away from his depression. Why would Trish bring him into this—triangle? He was chasing Trinity, Trish was chasing him and Trinity certainly hadn't realized her 'Ace' had developed such a lust for her. He glared back over his shoulder at her, a sight for sore eyes and a melody for the broken heart.

"Trin."

She stepped into the room and approached him slowly. "You've been in here all day."

Dante hadn't even realized the time. Physical necessity had been overpowered by emotional frailty. He had never been this weak. Ever.

"Are you alright?"

"Have I truly been in here all day?"

"Yes. Dwelling on what? I don't know you to dwell." She made her way over to him and settled beside him. He rose immediately, fearing that the rage of desire would control him, but it did not seem to help that he had distanced himself from her. His actions did not go unnoticed.

"I thought, Dante," she started sincerely, "that I've caused quite a stir since I arrived."

"That's alright." He said quickly.

"No. I feel like an intrusion."

"Don't be silly."

"I blew in with the wind. I will leave if you want, I don't want to cause any friction between you and Trish."

He turned quickly to face her, eyes wide with insult that she wanted to leave him. "You're not going anywhere. I won't let you leave, regardless."

"Ace," she started again, fearing that he was insincere and worried that her sudden and unexplained reappearance had ignited a flame of trouble. She wanted dreadfully to tell him everything she knew not. And even more, she wanted to know what he _hadn't_ told her. Secrets drove people apart like similar electrical poles, and now, she was driving Dante from his number one: Trish.

"I appreciate you so much," she continued, "but I don't want Trish to think of me as a bother and I don't want you angry with me as a result. I —"

When Dante turned to face her again his face was pained. He was frustrated, confused, troubled. He didn't wish to hear her speaking about leaving him, and his heart leapt out to her, straining to tell her what he thought when he looked at her. But a rejection would make him feel more angry and discarded than hurt, and telling her made him more fearful than the nightmares that haunted him. But he could take no more the struggle he put upon himself when he longed for her the way he did, and he currently did not care any of her reaction to him than he did actually opening up to her. She was an angel and she would forgive him for his premature and impulsive affair with Trish whom he loved and loathed simultaneously.

He reached a trembling hand to her and touched her face, locking eyes with her in a serious and tender stare. He wished she could read and understand him and his motives and intentions with her. But he barely knew them himself.

"It's like you're not even real…" He started, disregarded her earlier concern. "I don't want you to leave."

He dropped down beside her again and sighed, allowing his hand to fall from her face. She watched it slide away and retreat to his side.

"But Trish—"

He gripped both her arms in his hands and shook her gently. "Listen! Don't let her actions dictate how you feel! It maybe easy for Trish to adapt to you being gone but she didn't dream about you like I have for _eight years_. You haunted me because I couldn't have you with me. Now that you're finally here, do you want to leave me?" He seemed appalled. Trinity broke free from his grasp and gently took his hands in hers, silencing whatever beast was rising within.

"I don't _want_ to leave you." She wrinkled her brows in realization. She seemed to have met his sexual fancy and she did not know why. It slightly thrilled her to be wanted, but it also risked a relationship between them she did not want to change. She could not speak again until he brought his lips to hers and stole with his breaking kiss a piece from her soul. He was finally making _her_ weak. He did not seem to mind that she was for the moment, unresponsive, as he drew her to him in a quick jerk, caressing her neck with kisses and deepening her sudden want.

"Do you hear yourself?" She asked, trying to make certain. He was doing nothing more than lusting after his servant –it was more taboo than it was awkward. The 'yes' he whispered into her ear dashed her concern upon the rocks. She was indebted to him.

It did not occur to him that he was being selfish and showing a blatant lack of concern for either of their feelings. It had not occurred to him how damaging the truths he kept from Trinity would be. How terribly numb his rendezvous with her would leave Trish feeling. And how _crucial_ his nightmares were. His dreams were coming true: and this woman he laid with made him so weak he trembled when she touched him, throb when she kissed him, crumble when the heat of her lips were upon his. He never imagined a person could devour him so, and that contentment could come from being betwixt the arms of a woman. His soul danced with merriment, his chest heaved with desire and with each breath he took with her it seemed she was stealing something from him he could not get back.

He could not help but stare at her. He was satisfied and so physically fatigued he could not lift the hand that yearned to touch the side of her face. Seeing her vulnerable deadened some of the weakness he felt being with her. He wondered how different this union would be. If his feelings would disappear now that he had what he wanted but when she came to him and blessed him with so simple a kiss he felt that she could ask for anything at this moment and it would be hers.

"I've never had this." He admitted, finding the strength to speak and shatter the silence.

"What?" She asked, dancing her fingers in his hair.

"Intimacy," he responded. He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. "Feel what you do to me."

She smiled crookedly at his pounding heart.


	9. The Stranger

The Stranger

Trish did not heed to his cries the night before—although they kept her awake most of the night. The pitch in his voice, the screams of dismay, terror, and the wordless pleas for help had managed to escape her concern; she had hung up that burden the moment he left her to soak her pillow in regret. She had thought that he would see her in the light he illuminated her with, but it was as hasty, heartless and uninvolved as it could be. Her fears became a reality in a moment where bliss should have lifted them up and opened his eyes. There was a woman willing to love him for no reason other than for being himself, a woman who could see though his strife and handicap, but Dante was a more callous, selfish, indifferent man than she imagined. He had struck her so deeply she felt she could not live with the shame she put upon herself last night.

But he had held her as he slept, in fact, he had not let her go until he realized what had transpired between them, and in a flash, the intimacy was revoked for fear that Trinity would disapprove of their union. He could have stopped her at any time; he was slightly handicapped but not physically weak. He could have rebuked her; but he was unwilling. He could have been a lifeless rag, but he was a willing participant. All of his led Trish to believe that she was something he had coveted and come to suppress as a fantasy. Sleeping with her was something he simply had always wanted to do; like visiting a foreign country. But had she truly known that his heart had not even belonged to himself for eight years she would have left well enough alone—but it was too late, and remorse ate away at her relentlessly. He had not left his room to acknowledge her; and _Trinity_ floated about ignorant and winning a competition she did not know she was in.

How long would this attraction last? And even if Trinity did take to him, what would become of them after she found out _why._ Why _everything._ She never did press her Ace. Maybe that's what it was. Dante wanted someone to worship him.

_Damn the spell she had on Dante._

Three sharp knocks on the front door broke her from her tearful recollection.

"What do you dream about?"

The question took some time to settle on Dante, and he blinked away the memory of Trish asking him this very question. It seemed so faded now. He had so much to tell her, and he was glad that it was this question she asked as opposed to any intimate detail about his past.

"How do you know that I dream?" He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, drawing her near to him with a compassionate arm. He could not believe that he still wanted her near him. She was as cautious with him as a virgin on her wedding night; she did not know how affectionate to be with him least he grow tired of her, but she did not want him to think that she was feeling detached either.

"I heard you screaming. Unless you were fighting with someone."

"Just myself." He admitted.

She was persistent. "What do you see?"

Trish wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands one last time before she made it to the door. She would tell the visitor the store was not in operation today and dismiss them as quickly as possible. Dante could deal with her later. Usually, Mr. Agnew would have been there by now, but he was nowhere to be found and Trish was glad. He was as oblivious as he was old, but she did not wish for him to see her weeping. She pushed open the door just a peek in time to see a fist raised to knock again. She was a little more than surprised to see a distinguished gentleman standing idly on the other side in a very well fitting suit, sharp good looks and strong posture, with the most possessive and alluring smile she had ever seen. As breathtaking as he was, there was a disquieting atmosphere about him that made her shudder. She swallowed and spoke to the stranger who nodded his hello.

"Devil Arms is closed today. We won't be seeing any customers."

He went about his business as if she hadn't spoken at all. "Good day. Is Mr. Dante in?"

She blinked at his response. "He won't be seeing anyone today." She waited a moment before she began to close the door, but his hand shot up in between the frame and the door and stopped her. She gasped in surprise at his behavior. His smile broadened to a grin.

"I will wait in the foyer until you fetch him," He insisted, squeezing in through the small space he'd made for himself. Trish staggered back and watched him quietly shut the door after him.

"I don't think you understand…" she started, trying to maintain a professional disposition even if this man had bombarded into her home. "Dante doesn't see _anyone._"

He linked his fingers together and turned to face her after he'd had his visual fill of the entranceway. His eyes shone like headlights. "Go get him, Trish," he said sternly.

"I don't always know what it is I see. It's a man's voice calling to me. Telling me to let him in." Dante rubbed his eyes in thought.

Trinity nodded. "What does he look like?"

A dry shrug was her response. "I can't describe him. I can _see_ him, but I can't tell you, exactly."

"Are you afraid of him?"

He barely had time for a response. Trish's voice rang out to him from down the hall and halted his explanation. He truly did not want her to interrupt his private moment with Trinity. He decided to answer her before she came in to him.

"What?" He said plainly.

"There's a man downstairs for you." He sensed just a waver of fear in her voice. Had he not sensed it, he would have ignored the persistent visitor altogether. He wouldn't have been the first one. Either way, he was going to send them packing.

Trish stared blankly at the man who did not seem to mind that she was staring at him, he lapped his legs casually after he settled into an arm chair before the grand fireplace in the living room, the smile still so brilliant and yet so menacing. How did he know her name? She thought to offer him something. When he dashed his eyes upon her she jumped again, startled.

"I'm fine, thank you," he said. Trish was moved to silence again. Perhaps the offer was on her face?

"Dante doesn't take too kindly to strangers."

The man grinned again. "I'm no stranger, I introduced myself in the hall."

"No, you didn't."

"No bother. I'm not here to see you." His rude response angered Trish immediately. She heard Dante approaching on three legs and glanced back over her shoulder at him but she darted her eyes away when he met hers. He had barely made it into the room when the stranger sprung up from the chair he was in and dashed to Dante to grab his hand.

"A pleasure to meet you again."

Dante retreated his hand and squinted at the man in tailored suit, handsome in a way but nonetheless in some sense ominous. Again? Had he met him before? The grin turned savage.

"Who are you?" Dante asked, feeling his entire body tingle in his presence.

"The Mediator."

The moment those words left his lips, Dante felt his heart stop, and he lurched back in shock. A gasp got caught up in his throat and his eyes widened like saucers. It was the man from his dream.

"Kiss the women good bye. Let's go."

Trish lifted a brow. "Listen, I don't know who you think you are coming into—"

"Do silence yourself." The man growled. Her voice was gone from her in that same moment, and she was taken aback at her inability to speak. Her lips moved but no words would sound. She touched her throat, her face twisted in horror.

He grappled Dante by the collar but went stiff with surprise when he felt Dante's staff digging into his ribs. The flesh parted and the end of the shaft went jutting out the other side of him. He looked down at it calmly.

"Are you kidding?" He asked. He sent Dante flying backwards in one mighty shove that had him cascading out of the room. He pulled out the melee weapon and discarded it. Trish went dashing over to assist Dante but The Mediator grappled her arm and tossed her aside.

"A crippled devil with determination." He placed a foot on his chest to keep him steady despite his struggle to rise. "Your offenses, sir."

He reached into his suit jacket and retrieved a piece of paper, unfolded it and began to read from it in a sing-song voice.

"Fornication, blasphemy, gluttony, selfishness, vile language, wicked vices…yak, yak debauchery. Quite a list, Mr. Dante. Even defiling an Angel."

He turned to face Trish who seemed to be screaming at him. "What?" He asked. The wicked smile came again.

To Dante: "Simply put, you are going to _hell_ and I am going to take you there. Come." He snatched him up roughly by the collar and started to drag him toward the door when Trinity came sailing down the stairs in a rush.

"What's happening?"

The Mediator perked up the second she came into the room. "Ms. Trinity!" A sound as a rustling of feathers filled the atmosphere, and two massive wings suddenly jutted out from between his shoulders and stretch, flapping a few times before they retreated into his back and disappeared. A sole, giant black feather fluttered lightly to the floor.

"I _do_ hate when that happens." He dropped Dante and stood with his legs spread over him. "Don't try anything," he warned, shaking a finger at him." He glanced Trish out the corner of his eye make another dash to aid Dante but he held out a hand to her and she stopped dead in her tracks, suspended.

"Persistent." He reached into his suit pocket again and retrieved another list. "Your offenses." He said to Trinity. He read them silently before he spoke again, stuffing the paper back into his pocket and fixing his eyes upon her. Trinity was still with fear.

"You _are_ the one of the biggest mistakes in creation, aren't you? You slept with _this_ man?" He glanced down at Dante with a disgusted face and placed a boot securely under his chin, watching him scramble to move his foot. It wouldn't budge even slightly and the gargling noise he made was entertaining.

"And you had a son which, I'm sure you know or your lover will tell you, caused all kinds of trouble."

Trinity found a voice to speak alas. "I-I was trying to—"

"Save it!" He interrupted. "Hell is filled with sob stories like yours. And we all know what the road there is paved with." He glanced down at Dante then up and Trinity then back to Dante again. "What a quarry! I can't decide which one of you to take back! You'd be such a prize, Mr. Dante. But Trinity, the laugher of hell is upon you." He placed his hands on his hips and scoffed. "Some Angel."

Trinity made her way down the last three steps, trembling with each step near this entity. The closer she came to him the rustling of the feathers intensified, until she could see his wings making another entrance just slightly. She stopped short of him and dropped to her knees, folding her hands in a pleading matter.

"Please…don't take him. He's done nothing but good."

"He can tell that to John Constantine when he gets to hell."

The fear erased from her face as if she'd just made a realization. Her brows furrowed. "Wait. Who sent you?"

"Who do you think?" He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

"You're a _liar_." She accused. She tried to back up on her hands when he took his foot from Dante and started toward her, an evil scowl on his face.

"I think I've just made my decision," He announced. He stopped short when he felt Dante grab hold of his foot.

"No! No…" He gasped desperately, clinging onto his leg. "Please…I'll go." The Mediator quirked a curious brow.

"You've already started for me, just take me, you liar." Trinity taunted. "Who let you in?"

"Trinity, don't do this!" Dante begged, dragging along with every step forward The Mediator took. He stopped walking long enough to kick forward and forcefully set Dante free. He skidded back toward Trinity.

"You two are the only persons who've ever fought to go to hell. Selfless or stupid, don't know."

He looked over at Trish who was still suspended, her arms outstretched and her mouth affixed to shout. "I'm having a hard time making decisions today. Trish, what do you think? Don't say anything if you agree." He laughed at his cruel joke.

"Who let you in?" Trinity demanded, crawling over to Dante. She took him up under the arms and aided him to sit up in her lap. His laughter melted away and his expression was serious again.

"You know your myths well, outcast."

"You can't touch him. He didn't let you in."

The look on The Mediator's face was purely displeasure, and his wings shot out quickly and spread out of his sides, flapping violently. The chandelier swung viciously from side to side, throwing the light around the room. He gritted his teeth.

"Curses to you and your earthly restrictions! Either way, I will be coming back and one of you will be leaving with me, so make a decision." He rushed toward Dante and grabbed his legs, drawing him toward him with one swift tug. He gripped his left leg by the knee and pressed down. Dante dropped his head back in pain, screaming for him to stop. It was as if the pain was resurfacing as it had some eight years ago, and it tore through every fiber of his being until it brought tears to his eyes.

"You'll feel this every day where you're going."

Dante cried out in pain as he pressed down harder still, his vision blurring with the sensation of every stinging lash ricocheting through his leg and to his hip. He fell back onto the floor in a lifeless mass, drained from the brief experience.

"You'd better not crack open so much as a window!"

With that, he did an about face and started for the door to let himself out. "Good day!" He snapped his fingers on the way out and Trish crashed to the floor in a stupor. Dante's chest was heaving.

Trish shook her head to clear it, sweeping her waterfall blonde hair away from her face. She looked over at Trinity and Dante both on the floor, the latter crying out as if he were being killed.

"What happened?!" She exclaimed. "What happened?!"


	10. Have We Met Before?

Have We Met Before?

Trish pushed Dante back against the arm of the couch gently, trying to settle his fussing as she examined his leg. She had made it her business not to even look at him despite the recent excitement, and now it felt odd being forced to interact with him again. He smashed his eyes shut and dropped his head, a deep breath escaping his nose.

"It's not broken," she said dryly, rolling down his pant leg.

"Really?" He replied. "Sure as hell feels like it." He finally locked eyes with her as she rose from his side and it seemed to force her attention. She pushed her hair away from her face and sighed.

"Look, Dante," she started.

He grabbed her forearm gently to silence her. "I am too. Don't worry about it."

She nodded, still feeling unsettled and took a seat at the edge of the couch he was sitting on when Trinity came back into the room and handed him an ice pack. He took it from her and dropped it over his knee. He nodded off to the adjacent couch for her to sit.

She settled into it and the three sat in bewildered silence for some time before Dante spoke.

"You know him?"

"Yeah."

Dante's lips formed a fine line across his face. "Who or what is he?" He fished out a cigarette and lit it, tossing the match to the floor. Trinity did not have it in her to take it from him.

"The Mediator is a Black Angel. It means he has no alliances but tends to lean toward the side that best interests him. He ferries souls to and from hell or wherever. Historically, if you're dead or dying, he'll come knocking and only if the ailing person answers him, he'll read them their sins and take them to hell."

"But I'm not dead or dying…" Dante said. He wasn't so sure himself and his line was halfway convincing.

"Then somebody sent for you."

"Who?"

He got a dry and subtle shrug for a response. "Could be anybody."

Dante tapped a few ashes onto the floor and rubbed his chin in thought. The list of possibilities was endless. "How do you know him?"

"The Mediator makes deals and takes appealing bribes. He is a gentleman, true to his word."

"They always are." Trish mumbled.

Dante sat up with a grunt and readjusted the ice pack on his leg. "How do you know him?" He asked again. He could cut the tension in the room with a knife.

"I wasn't always here, Dante." She replied softly, a pained expression painted on her face. "Purgatory is no place for an angel to be, full bred or otherwise." She lifted her shirt and ran her fingers over the scar on her stomach. "Who was going to pray me out of purgatory?"

When she got no response, she continued. "He ferried me out a few years ago. Getting to you again was the difficult part."

Dante's eyes turned cold. "So you struck a deal with him? What was it? Have you done it or are you doing it?"

He didn't mean to sound so cold, but it pained him and it feared him to even consider the possibility that he was bait. When he looked over at her she did not seem intimidated by his tart questions.

"I've already done it. Something I repent day in and day out. I know him on a more intimate level than I ever intended to, but the rewards outweighed the consequences then, and if it meant being next to my Ace, then... I just made a small sacrifice."

Dante furrowed his brows at the thought. Vague though it was, obvious it was also. "So you were…"

She lapped her legs and averted his question with a swift reply.

"Water under the bridge, Ace."

Trish, who had been silent the entire time, leaned forward over her legs and buried her face behind her hands. Unlike Dante who was slightly panged with jealously and driven to silence that she had made this sacrifice to reunite with him, it was obvious now that he meant more to her than she thought. It put a strain on Dante to think that she had belonged to someone else prior. The lack of details made his head spin with possibilities and far-fetched imaginative situations. He wanted so badly to comfort her that his hands trembled. He set the cigarette between his fingers to hide his frustration.

"Why would _you_ be going to hell?" Trish asked, finally making her presence known.

Trinity nodded. "Fair question. As he said, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and apparently, the son I thought I had lost was only lost to me." She shot her eyes over at Dante, intense but kind was her stare also. He felt her eyes upon him and looked over at her sheepishly, feeling the situation he averted for so long catching up to him. How would he tell her these things? After what she had endured to be at his side again, her Ace, did she deserve to know? But did she also deserve to be ignorant? He did not want to drive her away.

He turned the cigarette over and put out the lit end on his tongue. He barely flinched when it sizzled out.

"Trish," he started with a sigh. She didn't bother to wait for her dismissal, she sprang up and exited the room to allow them privacy. Every moment she left them alone she felt herself drifting further away from Dante, and that he was drifting nearer to a woman he didn't know that he loved. At this point, she didn't know how Trinity felt about him. But it couldn't match the intensity she felt for him. Trinity had suffered to return to him out of duty, not love. He was willing to go to hell for her. Was she willing to do the same?

"Angel, you want to come over here?" He offered, patting a spot next to him on the couch. She politely declined much to his dismay, her beautiful face struggling to fight back any sentiment, bracing herself for some emotional destruction. She couldn't figure Dante out. He could be as gentle as a breeze on a flower petal, but as dangerous as a devil. There was no middle ground with him and she yearned to ask him what his intentions were, but it seemed to her now that he was trying to find some _peace _with her now that he'd stopped fighting the good fight.

"There is no easy way to explain to you…" He paused and tapped his index finger against his skull to try and channel both the courage to tell her this and the focus to word his explanation as gently as possible. He was never good at sugar- coating.

"What do you want to know?" He asked, figuring it easier to answer direct questions. "What happened to my leg?" He sampled, knocking on his knee with a closed fist. "Adoni snapped it in half. So who's Adoni? The son you thought you lost. I never knew him until he was a man—a general."

Trinity opened her mouth to say something but she closed it again. She didn't want to seem weak but he was draining her desperately.

"My greatest nemesis turned out to be a curse from us…But you're damn lucky you never knew him as I did because it made it easier to _kill_ him." He paused a moment to regain composure. He couldn't stand to see the toll the truth was taking on her. It was wreaking havoc on the inside, but she could not meet his eyes either. He stood up with a great groan and found his staff leaning idly next to him. He tossed the ice pack to the floor.

"So why this? Why that?" He shrugged. "I quit the business after him. Waiting to die. Wanting to die. He lives right inside here," He tapped his skull again, "And it's because of him I see blood when I should be seeing water, why I suffer from phantom pains and fight to cope with reality in a mind that won't function when it pines over your absence and becomes a danger to myself _and_ Trish. Do you understand? Bless you. I would die for you Angel, I don't hurt so bad when you're around. I dunno why, I can't help that. I'll be damned if I let some Mediator take you to hell on account of me. I'm not worth it."

"_Why_ would you keep something like that from me?" She asked. He turned around to look at her but his eyes only followed her to the door where she made a hasty exit and left him to wallow in wonder.


	11. Difficulty Sleeping

Difficulty Sleeping

Lack of sleep was an understatement. Dante had literally spent the entire night awake, stumbling to and fro in the darkness, storming the library for information on The Mediator. He knew that if he went to sleep, Trish would not visit him. And Trinity, worst of all, had turned her back on him last night and he hadn't heard from her or seen her since. He was more furious with her than anything; the devil in him would not let him be hurt. He lit another cigarette, his fifteenth one, and scurried through a book in his hand, trying to make sense of the occult and dark arts, catching up on his mythology. He wondered if he would one day earn a spot in a _book_.

A noise behind him caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder at Trish, sleep raking her eyes and standing idly in the doorframe, a yawn coming over her. The telephone rang, and she took two steps toward it but Dante intercepted her hand quickly and snatched it up.

"Fuck you!" He yelled, slamming the phone back down on the receiver. He picked the entire thing up and, with a mighty heave, ripped it from the jack in the wall. Trish blinked at his good morning. She caught on immediately to his disheveled hair, the butts of cigarettes littering the desk, the scattered books and the shirtless warrior limping about and puffing furiously at his cigarette. His tinted red eyes gave him away.

"No sleep?" She offered. "It's six o'clock. There's still time."

He turned to face her, his eyes swimming about in his head, no focus and his lids heavy. "Sleep? How can I sleep with all that banging?!"

It was only after he'd said that that Trish noticed the pounding on the front doors. The wood made a horrid thumping sound before it resided.

"It's him," Dante said, running his fingers through his hair.

"On the phone?" Trish questioned.

"Him."

Trish shook her head tiredly. "Did Mr. Agnew show up yet?"

Dante shook his head and leaned against the desk in front of him. "No." He looked up at Trish. "Have you seen Trinity?"

"Not since yesterday. I assume she didn't take the news well?"

Dante scoffed, trying to ignore the tapping on the window. Trish glanced over at it nervously, checking to see if it was closed. She went over to it and locked it.

"I don't know why you even try," She continued.

Dante grabbed his head and shook it. "Now is _not_ the time."

"I know how you feel, Dante."

"I doubt you know how I feel right now." He collapsed into the desk chair, pulling open drawers for a pack of cigarettes.

"I know you better than anyone. Isn't it obvious how you feel about her? How could I not know when I've been feeling like you have for years?"

Dante couldn't believe she was going on like this at this moment. He wanted to get up and kill her right then, anything to shut her up and take his mind off the persistent trespasser outside his house. He slammed the bottom drawer shut when he came up disappointed again.

"For God's sake, you look like my mother," He said sternly.

"And if I didn't?"

"Leave me alone, Trish." He warned, collapsing into his arms atop the desk. She went over to him and gently touched his arm.

"Why can't you give me what Trinity doesn't want?"

He shot his head up quickly, anger and insult swelling in his eyes. "You don't want what I have to give!"

She matched his temper. "You went mad looking for her for eight years! At any point you could have turned around to me but you've been blind for eight years, Dante, eight!"

Suddenly, the frustration and subdued temper spilled. He thrust toward her and seized her viciously, forcing her against the nearest wall. His cane clattered to the floor.

"You have no right! Do you hear me? You have no goddammned right! Telling me who to love! You think I'm stupid? That I never considered you? You've danced in and out of my heart's affairs for years! Trinity was the only one who stayed put and if you think I can help that then _you're _mad! You don't love me, Trish. I'm the only man you ever knew. You don't have a choice in the matter!" He hadn't realized that he'd hoisted her up until he let her go and he went flopping backward into the chair he'd sprung out of and Trish dropped back to level ground. His chest was heaving. Of course it had occurred to him that Trinity might not be pining for him as equally or as much as he pined for her, but it was more painful than he imagined hearing it from someone else.

"I never had to fight for you, Trish, you always loved me. And you've always been here," he tapped his scarred chest with a finger and sighed. "But lately it seems you're fighting more to get out than in."

Trish was flabbergasted. For the first time, she was seeing a side to the coin that never occurred to her as relevant: Dante was the only man she had ever known. His words pierced her more than his actions, but she felt some form of comfort in knowing that he did care for her. She did not mean to insult him or touch him so deeply and so negatively, but it was apparent to her now that Dante could not be hers for the same cruel reason Trinity could not be his. Circumstance and coincidence were wicked instances of fate. He would soon see, that love didn't favor any of them.

"Don't make this difficult for me," he started, before burying his face in his arms again. "Don't."

Trinity rubbed the last bit of sleep from her eyes, an unfamiliar disturbance rousing her this early. The sun was pouring brightly into the room she was in, the warm rays laying across her like a blanket. She yawned, the memory of the previous evening unfolding the instant she awoke. She was not angry with Dante, no, it pained her terribly to think that their union had been enough to make her better half worthy of hell, and that nothing good amounted from the son that was to be a prodigy. Additionally, she had sold herself to be back with her Ace, and the same one who delivered her had come to take something else away from her that she was sure held a righteous position in her heart. The burden of living was suddenly heavy upon her chest.

A light rapping on the window stole her attention. When she looked, there was The Mediator, as handsome as ever, a wicked grin set on his lips, watching her intently with two piercing eyes. He startled her, and she thought for a moment that it was her time, but it didn't take her but a moment to realize he was outside while she was in. She sighed in relief, pulling the covers over herself.

"Don't hide," he commented. "I am no stranger to you. Are you ready? Let me in."

She eased out of bed and went to the window, drawing the curtains tightly. She could still see his shadow perched on the other side. She pulled on a robe and went down the hall, dashing down the stairs two at a time. The Mediator was annoying and frustrating, and the least time she spent by windows the better. She made it into the kitchen, hoping to find Mr. Agnew and a good French breakfast, but she got Trish instead, red-eyed and nursing her wounded heart and a glass with a ruby liquid inside. Overdue conversation would be inevitable now. Trinity sighed when she met eyes with her.

"Are you afraid for Dante?" She asked, taking a seat across from her and grabbing the source of the ruby liquid; a green bottle of wine, partially empty but it was obvious that Trish had not consumed it all alone. Her tinted eyes were not a result of alcoholism, it was what Trinity misdiagnosed as concern. Trish's eyes did not leave her.

"How do you feel about him?" Trinity set the bottle down before her again. She somehow knew the question wasn't pertaining to the same subject matter she was aiming for. It was the way her face read heart ache, the crumbling interior that disturbed the foundation of her plainly beautiful face, picturesque and tormented by the curse of familiarity. It then occurred to Trinity why Trish had been less than welcoming.

"Oh." Was the flat reply. What was she to say? Admit? She was ashamed and sorrowful for her. She had bested her unintentionally in a game she did not know she was playing. Her glare did not break, and Trinity knew a response was detrimental. It could either seal her suppositions and cap off her defeat, or spring hope into a situation it seemed Dante had attempted to settle. She wondered if Trish knew him equally as well. She decided she would skip details.

"Trish…He's not the same man I remember." This was true. "He's a ghost in a shell."

"But how do you _feel?"_

Trinity refused to add salt to the wound. "I feel as if I've left him somewhere. That I've missed too much of his life to be a part of it."

Trish made a face she couldn't read. "Yesterday, he was willing to go to hell for you." She reminded. She sighed. "What is it like to be love—"

Trinity stopped her before she even got the word out. She stood up abruptly to put a swift end to he conversation. "The thought or word never crossed his lips and I'm certain he would think to lust faster than he would think to love. Every time I love, I lose. I think we all know the consequences of that…"

Trish exhaled heavily, downing what was left in her glass. Trinity couldn't have made the end of their conversation any more clear. She rolled her eyes at the persistent knocking on the front door. The Mediator was relentless.

Dante shot his head up suddenly, eyes wide, heart racing, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face from his frosty white hair. He wondered how long he'd been asleep. He fell back into the comfort of his arms after he remembered what had transpired in the room God knows how long ago. In only a few days, his emotions took a roller coater ride with him unfastened in it. Trinity had returned to him and breathed love into his heart, Trish had loved and loathed him, and his life was worthless and priceless simultaneously. The persistent knocking reminded him of a duty and a decision. When he looked up from his arms again, Trinity was within view, standing before the door with her arms folded across her chest. She went to it and touched the wood, and he, fearful that she would open it, called to her desperately.

"Trinity!"

She looked over at him, his hand outstretched, and she complied with his nonverbal plea for her to come to him. When she touched his hand a tremor went through him, and the fire of fear died in his eyes. He sighed with relief and pulled her toward him so he could bury his face in her. He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her warm belly, and she held him as closely as he wanted and needed.

"Trinity," he sighed, mumbling into her. "I thought you were going to open the door."

She shook her head, dancing his hair about his head with her fingers. He wrapped his hands around her wrists. "You're not angry with me, Angel?" He asked. If he could have pulled her into his soul he would have. She shook her head again, although he was not looking at her, and marveled at how much of her affection he soaked up.

"No."

"I thought you were going to open the door."

She bent to him, taking his face her in hands. "No, Dante, no. Not until I know what you'll have me do."

He looked up at her finally, furrowed his brows. "Nothing. I decided last night I would give myself to him. You don't have to do a damn thing."

His selflessness moved her, and her spirits fell at the notion of losing him again. But he was not the man she had left. The Dante she knew was a warrior, a chained fighting dog with a silent and mysterious air about him, a confidant walk and prose, a smug expression, and a cautious heart. He could not be argued, convinced or bargained with, he feared nothing, he expected less, and he loved little if at all. The man she came back to was a shadow. He was more man than he was beast, and too thirsty for death to care for much else. The man she came back to did not try. And she feared she could not ignore the control of her heart for long, because despite the changes in her Ace, she could not help but adore him_._ But the possibility that the side he exposed to her was only temporary drew her away. Dante was not himself and he apparently hadn't been for a while.

"You can't walk into his arms, Ace," she started, pulling away from him to sit atop the desk.

Dante hung his head briefly. He wasn't going to argue her about his decision. He looked up at her again. "I just want to know—how much if at all, you appreciate me. I mean to say, if I were to die today, I just want the comfort of knowing—"

She stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. "Take my love with you in the after life."

He seemed relieved by her statement. He slid between her and placed his head in her lap.

"One day they'll write books about you." She said.

"You think so?" He said flatly.

"You're a legend after all."

"Humph."

"They might mention me, and Trish for sure, but mostly you. And they'll mention your father's legacy. Your rise and fall—from the defeat of Mundus, to the slaughter of your own son."

He winced at the latter. She continued. "And the end will be quite a tragedy, with the world's greatest superhero giving up with out a fight to a black Angel who sought to take his soul to hell. A suitable ending for someone of your caliber?" He narrowed his brows at her rendition of his life story. "The Dante I knew would have rather gone out in a blaze of glory."

"What's wrong with this Dante?" He asked.

"Nothing. As much as I like him, I'd give anything for the old Dante."

"I just can't fucking win, can I?"

"Don't get defensive, Ace. There's nothing wrong with you. You just need motivation."

He slid out from between her legs and grabbled his staff. She watched him exit in a huff without polite parting.


	12. Making Appealing Deals

Making Appealing Deals

Dante closed the French doors behind him, feeling he could have a moment without the two weeping women in his life finding him breeching outside his room, on the balcony, the circular stone railing barring him in. He went to lean over the railing, glancing down into the courtyard where Red Rocket stood alone, and if he focused well enough, he could see past the stone walls isolating him in his manor and into the desolate streets of Orleans. Had he changed so much over the years? His life had been so calm he wondered if he could still heal himself, he wondered if this terrible fate had not befallen him, if he would still be doing his devilish work.

"Nice of you to join me."

"Excellent sixth sense you've got there, devil." The Mediator fluttered down to where he was from the roof, his massive wings as silent as a cemetery as they folded neatly against his back and retreated into him. He strolled over to Dante who had his back turned, and picked up his staff.

"Thank you for coming out to me instead. You are coming, aren't you?" He admired the shaft of the cane, marveled silently at the intricate design on the head, nodded in appeal before he set it down again. "Well?"

Dante glared at him from the corner of his eyes. He did not fear death or hell, and the Mediator no longer had the initial affect on him as he did prior.

"Trinity certainly isn't going."

He clapped is hands together. "Splendid! I've only been waiting all morning. Hopefully you went in and made love to them both so I can multiply their transgressions. Sleeping with devils only insures a ticket to hell." Dante turned to face him with an irritated and insulted look in his eyes. The Mediator reached into his dashing coat pocket, retrieved Dante's personal list.

"In case you forgot, sir."

Dante held out a hand to stop him. "Wait."

He got a blank and intense stare as a response. "I'll make a deal with you."

"Oh?" He replaced the list and pulled himself atop the railing, lapping his legs once he was comfortable enough. "Do entice me."

"Heal me." He tapped his leg. "Heal me. If you can. And I'll bring you anyone you ever wanted to take back to hell."

The Mediator flared. "What good is that to me? I can do that any time I want."

Dante shook a finger at him. "No, you can't. Unless someone sent you or the person is dying. You can send me, I'll sacrifice anyone you want. In place of me, in place of Trinity."

The Mediator folded his arms across his chest. His face read that he did not like the deal in the least, the proposition was poor and unappealing.

"Are you that desperate?"

"Yes."

"And selfish. I thought you wanted to die."

"I never considered hell."

The Mediator chuckled greatly at the irony. "Why the change of heart? Oh—wait! Don't answer that." He waved Dante off with a flick of his wrist. "Alright devil, you've got your deal. Anybody I want."

He leapt down from the railing so quickly, Dante did not have time to react, nor did he expect to, but the Mediator was upon his chest so swiftly he didn't have time to blink before his back was pressed into the ground. He reached up a hand to push him away but it was intercepted, and a hand shot down over his mouth forcefully.

"Shh. You cannot scream at all in order for this to work." With that said, he wrapped his hand around Dante's leg, and again, a painful surge went through him and startled his heart. His eyes bulged and he struggled to rise, but the Mediator moved his hand from his mouth and pushed him back to the ground. A shrill and painful yell parted from Dante's lips, and the Mediator covered his mouth again.

"Shh!"

The struggle Dante put up was immense, the pain he was enduring was blinding, and when he could take it no longer, he channeled all his might to sit up. He didn't care if it didn't work. Nothing was worth this. He placed an open palm squarely into the Mediator's chest and sent him sailing backwards much to his surprise. Dante sat up quickly, the scream that was being suppressed burst from his lips in a short yelp. The Mediator gaped down at his chest where he had been assaulted. He pulled back his collared shirt and exposed the handprint on his left breast.

"Gracious!" He stared with wide eyes and amusement at Dante. "Arise, Lazarus! Be not inhibited!" His grin spread like wild fire about his face, and when Dante stood, there was no pain, and no memory of a break. He lifted his pant leg to survey the damage. Amazed beyond belief, he felt a certain mischievous spirit seize him, and as if he were born again he took flight from the balcony and landed in the courtyard a few yards away. When he landed, he found his footing and leapt again, tearing the hair from his face with each leap forward. He felt his chest swell up with joy every time he planted both feet on the ground without staggering. He took off in another direction when he landed, speeding up and down all four corners of the courtyard and double jumping at will.

"Yeah!"

He ignored his audience of one leaning over the balcony and clapping at his performance. He wished he could have had Alastor in his hands, but he would do without it. He jumped atop Red Rocket, perched, found a target; the second story balcony, and with ease, soared clear to the top and landed next to the Mediator who was waiting patiently for him. He clapped politely.

"Fantastic!" He cheered. "Fantastic. You've saved yourself, you selfish tramp." His face was serious again. "On to my part of the deal."

Dante nodded. "Anyone you want."

"I should ask for someone completely out of your scope of reason, like Alfred Agnew. But that old man is such a devout Catholic who goes to mass every evening, that I don't even _have_ a list for him. So I'll make it easy for you and not leave your world." He held up his thumb. "Trish," he paused, lifted his index finger, "Or Trinity." His thumb jutted out.

Dante felt his pupils small instantly, and although his legs were working they were suddenly not so sturdy, and he went pale with regret. How could he have made a deal with such a margin of error? He panicked, and his heart beat a little less, but he caught himself from fainting. The Mediator grinned wildly, distorting his handsome face. Dante felt numb all over.

The Mediator crossed his arms, waiting for a reply, but a colossal black wing shot out from his back and flapped wildly, and the other one joined in soon after, and he was swept back against his will. He tried to ground himself but the wings flapped again, and he lifted much to his displeasure.

"Blast!" He spurted. He gripped the railing on his way up to stall and give himself a moment more. "Duty calls Red Devil, but I'll be back!" The next flap of his wings and he was gone.


	13. Decisions, Decisions

Decisions, Decisions

"Madame Trish, quelque chose est faux avec Monsieur Dante."

Trish looked up from the Books she was divulged in, calculating the financial assets of the weaponry produced. Dante's twin guns seemed to be the biggest hit, but Nightmare Beta at best was a decorative piece that could not discharge. Handgun production was always a winner, and no one had died yet.

"Mr. Agnew?" She did not catch what he was trying to express.

"Il est dans sa chambre dans une stupeur. Il ne répondra pas. Est-ce que je dois appeler un docteur ?"

Trish furrowed her brows. "Uh, no, don't call the doctor," She started, scooting back in her chair. She caught herself, "No, no docteur." She then realized that it had been a while since she heard the banging on any of the doors or windows. She left the library and darted up stairs two at a time and bolted into Dante's room. She found him spread atop his bed, doors to the balcony gaping open and his comatose stare fixed on the ceiling.

"Dante," she called, voice in a slight panic. She went over to him and shook him. "Dante!"

He rolled his head to look at her, his blank face revealing nothing. "_What_ have I done?" He asked.

When he finished explaining to Trish that he had practically sold their souls to a devil for his own personal advancement, she had to take a quick seat on the bed next to him to steady herself. He proved to her that he was well when he tossed his staff aside and took a short pace in front of her. Trish, under any other circumstances, would have been thrilled for him, but at that moment, knowing that her soul was in jeopardy, she couldn't have been more angry with him and the fact that his love for Trinity increased her chances set the stage for her tears to come tumbling out. She buried her face behind her hands and sobbed so violently that Dante didn't know how to react to her. He was surprised; he had never seen her cry before, but he knew her tears were because of him. He ran his hair out of his face and sighed, waiting for her tears to run their course. But his patience was thin and when he could stifle his sympathy no more, he knelt in front of her and took her shoulders and shook her gently.

"Trish, Trish, stop crying." He said gently, pulling her hands away from her face. Her cheeks were damp with tears, strands of hair were stapled to her face, and her nose was red. Despite her mess it did not falter her beauty, and Dante pulled the stuck strands away from her face and sighed. The tears silently rolled down until they dripped from her chin and splashed onto him. He pulled her into his arms and she greedily latched onto him.

"You're not going anywhere," he promised. "I won't let him take you away from me." She believed him but she doubted he would sacrifice Trinity either.

"Can you still heal?"

"I don't think I ever _stopped_."

"When was the last time you actually had a gaping wound?"

"About eight years ago."

Trish loaded a round into the shotgun she was holding. "Well, I hate to do this to you…" Not really.

She pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. A tremendous BANG sent her staggering back a few feet and Dante went sailing back in the other direction. He lay still a few feet from her, specs of blood splattered about him and his palms face down. He didn't budge for a moment but then he sat up stiffly and growled at her.

"What the fuck are you thinking! What if the answer was no?!" He stood up, took off his fragmented shirt and started to pick stray pieces of buck shot from his abdomen. Trish grinned at him.

"What if Mr. Agnew saw that?"

Trish dropped her grin and set the shotgun down on the ground and left Dante alone in the courtyard to dismiss Mr. Agnew for the evening. Dante watched her hurry off, flicking a bit into the wind. Trinity's curious and concerned head popped out from the French doors Trish had just entered.

"Ace, what's going on out here?"

He reared his head up and turned to look at her. "Oh, Trish shot me."

She glanced down at the shotgun on the ground and noticed the red specs on his chest and abdomen. "What for?"

He didn't want to answer her. Before he could make up an excuse she spoke again. "What if the Mediator comes back? Why are you outside?"

"Grab a sword off the wall in the weapons room and come here, will you?"

Trinity raised a brow in disbelief. "What? Do you want me to spar with you?"

"Yes."

She shook her head. "My expertise was never in that area…"

"Get one. Yamato." He insisted.

"You can barely walk, far-less spar."

He spread his arms and took a few steps toward her, much to her amazement. "I can walk just fine. Come on."

She opened her mouth to say something but he intercepted her. "The devil is into details."

When she sparred with him, he made her tired. His blocks were casual, but the force of his sword swinging down onto hers made her arms numb, and his offense was frustrating, she would miss and he would get close enough to touch her with his bare hand, illustrating how much she left herself open. She was astonished again at how fluidly and precise his movements were, how just yesterday he was inhibited, and now, he sprang off the same leg that hindered him. Her brain was speeding with possibilities; so much she could not concentrate on her opponent.

Trish sat back, lounging in the patio furniture, and once in a while, when Dante left himself open, she would open fire on him and gleefully and proudly watch his narrow escape. Eight years of inactivity hadn't slowed him down, in fact, his reaction time was still incredible. Trinity remembered how he used to spar with her over two decades ago, in the snow in Sredne Kolymsk where she was his apprentice, and the memory of Trish was the only thing that kept his heart beating. The tables seemed to have turned dramatically. She managed to narrowly escape the backhand over-head swing he slung at her. She remembered the first night he came to her on his premature deathbed and asked her to do him a favor. She ducked casually, her offense paused. She went back to when he died, how much his absence ate at her, and how quickly she and Trish had to learn to tolerate one another to survive in a world without him. She leapt back, the sound of Dante's twin handguns cracking from Trish's hands distant, the amusement on his face as he dodged the bullets blurry.

She recalled her death, and her memory went black. When she was in purgatory, desperate to return to the world, the Mediator was her only option. She snapped back into reality when Dante knocked her sword from her grasp, steadied it on Alastor's tip before he swatted it out of the way. He charged at her with his offensive arm outstretched, and she gasped when she felt her flesh tear and a trickle of blood gush down her arm. She slapped her hand over it to stop the blood. Dante dropped Alastor and went to her tenderly.

"Why didn't you dodge that?" He asked, gripping her arm. She looked up into his face and knew without him saying it what had transpired between him and the Mediator.

"You made a deal with him, didn't you?"

Dante didn't respond. His concerned expression melted away and he darted his eyes from hers. She grabbed his arms when he started to turn away.

"Oh no, what did you do?" She seemed panicked, her brows furrowed in concern. Dante broke out of her grasp.

"Patch that up, will you, Trish?" He pointed to her arm and started inside, Trinity on his heels. Trish stood up and intercepted them, allowing Dante to disappear into the manor.

"You want me to fix that or what?"

Trinity glanced down at her arm and moved her hand to survey the damage. Nothing she couldn't live with. "No. What did he do?"

Trish moved from in front of her when she decided she would not go in after him, and started to pick up Alastor and Yamato.

"I know you know, Trish," Trinity pressed.

"How do you figure?" She scooped up the shotgun she had discarded earlier and started toward the weapons room with Trinity in tow.

"Who knows him better than you?"

Trish paused momentarily, glad someone else had realized this truth but never expected it to come from Trinity's mouth. She sighed heavily and put Yamato back on its hooks. "He just wanted to get fixed, that's all. He never expected to be trading one of us for it, but don't worry. He would never give either of us up. Especially y—" When Trish turned to face Trinity, she was standing alone in the room. She gave up and sighed heavily.


	14. Facing the Nightmare

Facing the Nightmare

Even though the steady flow of the shower head beating against his body and the tub he was standing in drowned out most outside noise, he could hear Trinity's frantic footsteps make their way into his bedroom and pace in front of his door, waiting for him to come out. He closed his eyes and let the water beat down on his head, dreading having to explain his stupidity, his selfishness to her. He dragged his wet hair from his eyes, not in the mood to get into a confrontation. He had hoped Trish would have kept her at bay but he knew the friction between them could start a fire. He also knew she probably wouldn't understand why he had become so desperate to live— and he could not let this Mediator take away the one thing that inspired him to live: love. It made him weak with desire and it strengthened him to do great things. His love for Trish, although the love he offered her was not the love she wanted, was possessive and tender, cherished and in someway crude, but he would do anything to keep her with him. She was the reason he _lived._ Trinity was the reason he would die. He did not know exactly when she had entered his heart, but she touched a part of him he kept vaulted, and he could not deny that she was the one he wanted with him and in him, and receiving her tenderness was the blessing he felt that God in heaven had granted him in his life. He could not escape her. But he knew how dangerous their union could be.

"Have a seat." He offered from the bathroom. "I'll be right out."

She took a seat at the foot of his unkempt bed, tossing his towel to the other side, her arms folded across her chest. "You _devil._" She taunted. "After what I've told you about him?"

Dante smirked at her dynamism. "You know I could never make that decision. Both of you stay."

"But you go?" She sounded concerned. "Again?"

The shower nozzle turned off and he paused to shake the water from his wild hair. "Listen, Angel. You told me that I just needed to find my motivation."

He emerged from the bathroom, naked as the day he was born and sauntered over to the towel on the bed next to her. "I've found it." He dried his face and looked down at her, she seemed troubled, fearful of what might happen to him. He knew.

"Close the door," he commanded softly. She got up to go to it but he stopped her. "No. From here." She did not see his purpose but she willed it and it was done. The door swung in silently and shut.

Dante grinned. "You still got it."

She nodded, not bothering to sit again. "I'm frightened for you, Ace." She admitted. She did not want him to go again. He spread his arms and invited her inside, and she walked slowly into him, sighing when his hands locked behind her back. She had seen him before, but never in this light, and it was then that she noticed all the scars tapering his body, the old and the new, the indentations, the bullet holes, and scrapes, the flesh darkened or paled depending on severity. Dante did not seem to mind her noting his "tattoos." But when she sighed as she passed her fingers over the indentations on his back and shoulders, his heart went out to her again.

"Adoni gave me those," he informed. Her expression was pained. He massaged the base of her neck with his fingers, closing his eyes in bliss when she settled her head on his shoulder. He could have died this way. He lifted her face and brought his lips to hers in a tender and desperate attempt to kiss her, but he had to be satisfied by the heat of their lips alone because she turned away and pressed her face into his chest again.

"You're condemning us both," she reminded. He nodded and hid his disappointment well. Inside, he was screaming to consume her in his love, he had suffered ill fate before and condemnation did not worry him, but he did not want to take her away from the glory she deserved. Could life be so cruel? He felt like the Shakespearian star-crossed lovers. He was her scared Romeo and she was his Angelic Juliet. Again, he trembled. The pounding of his heart in her ears intensified, and the tears that fell from her were silent. Love had escaped them all.

Dante sat outside perched atop Red Rocket, staring off into the mid afternoon sun, contemplating the end to the wretched nightmare he was living. Would he lie in wait for the last time or would he go out to meet death half-way? He glanced back at the manor he never could call home but had lived in and wondered if it would be wise to bring the destruction there. No. And what if he were to lose? He did not want to die in shame or risk a rescue from the same people he was trying to save. He took one last drag of his cigarette and threw the butt to the ground. It did nothing to pacify his nerves. He reached into his pocket for another but came up short. He grunted in aggravation and started the engine. It hummed like a champion and he took off from the courtyard, deciding that it would be best if he did not look back again. They would find out his fate when he did not return. But he would not fail for various reasons. He had been so ready to die prior to the series of events that had recently befallen him, but he had not told the one woman who made his pulse race that he loved her, nor did the other woman in his life know exactly how much he appreciated her. He did not know where he was going but the coastline found him and ceased his directionless journey. He was appreciating the landscape when:

"Good evening, Mr. Dante. Have we made a decision?"

Dante dreaded turning around. He had barely stopped his engine when already his company arrived. He turned around to face the smiling gentleman, mimicking his unearthly grin.

"I have."

"Oh? It's Trish, isn't it?"

Dante shook his head slowly.

"Trinity?!" His brows reared in shock. "I accept."

Dante shook his head again. "Deal's off. You can cripple me if you want to. But I'm not giving you either."

The Mediator sighed heavily. A quiet storm was brewing inside of him, Dante could sense it. "Unlike you, I am bounded by my commitments. But I am afraid you've made me dreadfully angry." He folded his arms across his chest and watched Dante carelessly lounging atop his motorcycle. He reached into his coat pocket but came up short with the list. He had no assignment. "You've put me in quite a predicament."

Dante shrugged. "You can take me. But I won't go quietly."

The Mediator shook his head. "You _will_ make a decision. You are a vain and selfish man, Mr. Dante. I know this for a fact." He gestured toward his leg. "I can't, unfortunately, _kill _you. But I am certain you know there are fates far worse than death. So _choose_ Mr. Dante. Trish or Trinity."

Dante turned his back to him rather dismissingly. He knew that this dapper gentleman behind him was more vicious and brutish than he appeared, but he was not greater than time, and his was running out. Dante knew all he had to do was last. Not a friend of many words, he knew conversation was not going to make him the victor.

"Go back to hell." He growled.

The Mediator had gripped him by the hair and dragged him off Red Rocket before he had the meager opportunity to _blink_, and despite his struggle, a large hand had engulfed his face. Five steel- like fingers dug into his skull.

"Give me Trish, and Trinity will bare to look at you."

Dante wrapped his hand around his wrist but could not budge him. "No!"

Even as he felt his nose break from the pressure and a warm squirt of blood trickle over his face, he did not change his decision. He tried to grit his teeth to suppress the pain, but the series of popping he heard ricocheting through his ears was the sound of his very own skull cracking along the sutures. He cried out. He knew The Mediator would turn his face to pulp before he would let go. Suddenly he released the grasp on his face and straddled him. He made a fist and brought it down onto him like a sledgehammer. He was displeased when splotches of blood splashed up and dotted his face. He paused a moment to take a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his face. He got a loud groan from Dante who tried to lift his hands to his face but The Mediator intercepted his them. He smiled down at his mangled face pleasurably. He was horrified when Dante spat a wad of blood at him.

"Don't spit at a gentleman." He warned sternly. He brought his fists crashing down on his face until his hands tired. He watched his eyes swim about directionless until they rolled into the back of his cracked skull.

"Wake up." He shook him violently and slapped his slippery cheeks to get his attention.

"Oh, Mr. Dante." He grappled his shirt in one tight fistful. "Are they worth it?" He ripped open the front of his shirt and placed his palm over his heart. "Physical pain is beyond you."

Dante felt his flesh tingle with the contact of his hand against his skin. Sudden feelings of despair took him and made his heart heavy; memories he had long since buried resurfaced, and the emotional pain of sorrows long ago flooded him with depression, hurt, rejection, loneliness, turmoil and suffrage. The memories flooded back into his pounding skull, still leaking slowly the essence of his being. He felt as if something was sitting on his chest, and all the hurt in his life re-lived itself in him: his mother's premature death, Virgil's role in his life, Trinity's passing, killing his own son. He cried out again, knowing the power his memories possessed. They had driven him mad already, and he knew they would kill him before long.

Dante grimaced. "Do your worst!"

"Okay!" The Mediator tore his hand away, gripped his hair and turned him so that his belly was to the sand. "Okay, Mr. Dante. My patience grows thin." He gripped his wrist in his hand as though he were taking his pulse. "Trish or Trinity?"

When Dante didn't answer he felt his arm jerk up, and an elbow came down on the lateral side of his arm and a loud _snap!_ signified the breaking of his ulna. He gritted his teeth in pain, ignoring the stabbing discomfort when his arm dropped lifelessly beside him. The Mediator grabbed his other hand, ripped off his knuckle out glove.

"Choose."

"Fuck you!"

"Your language is deplorable and will not do." His pinky finger gave in first under the pressure, and the others followed in succession in a series of pops that nearly blinded Dante in pain. He had to bury his face in the sand to stand the small torture.

"Enough foreplay. Pick one or you won't have eyes to see or ears to hear."

Dante's chest heaved. He could not devil trigger—the one thing he could have depended on and he could not trigger. It was for this reason he bled and hurt like any man in his position. His body trembled with shock and his head throbbed until it blurred his vision. Were they worth it? What use were they to him if he did not have hands to touch them, eyes to see them, sense to appreciate them? He was thinking selfishly. No—if it meant losing all things physical, he would prove to this entity that physical pain was temporary, but guilt, compassion and most importantly, love, were feelings everlasting. He half-hated the latter feeling for putting him in this position.

He felt his hair give again, but this time he was pulled to his knees. The Mediator paused a moment, an impatient glare in his eyes tinted his pupils red, and his teeth gritted angrily.

"You cannot be this _daft_. You're in a lose-lose situation, Mr. Dante. In perspective: being with Trinity will condemn her to hell, and being with Trish will send you both to a fiery grave. Though your chances of redemption are slim, cut your odds in half. Just give me one."

Dante could barely respond to him be it insult or decision. His lips trembled with the words he wanted to spit. He wanted to curse him, to raise his fist and send him catapulting across the beach, but he could barely raise his head. His eyes shot open in fright and surprise when he felt The Mediator's icy hand travel between his legs.

"This is the sin every man is born with. You have three seconds. One—two, thr—" Before he could complete the word, his wings shot out from between his shoulders like an exiting freight train and lurched him back empty-handed. Dante flopped back onto the beach in relief, trying to roll as far away from him as possible.

"Blast!" He fought against the tug, forcing himself down with a mighty dive and came crashing back to earth in a feathery plummet. The instant he landed his wings jerked back again. "No! Not this time! Just let me finish!" He tried to fold his wings back into place, straining every fiber of his existence to stay grounded. When he pulled back, he felt a trickle of blood flood warmly down his back. His wings were tearing.

Suddenly a vicious temperament took him, and his once handsome face became estranged immediately. He growled with the struggle, and came to Dante again so swiftly that he did not anticipate his attack. He swung a fist at him and he caught it just below the ribs so that he folded nicely. The Mediator got swept back again, and he dug his fingers into the sand in protest.

"No! One way or another I will win! I will crush the very reasons you live!" He was jerked back into the air and he allowed his wings to spread out in two black clouds that swept the sky when they flapped. He fought again against his obligation and took off north, spiraling. Dante knew where he was heading but he could not stop the lump in his stomach from rising. He doubled over, gagging and dry heaving until a river of blood flooded from his mouth, followed by a thick clot of vomit that was nothing more than blood and spleen.

"Shit…." He gripped his arm with the best grasp his broken fingers could do, half healed and horribly askew.

"Arrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh!!" Two loud pops and he had re-broken his ulna and positioned it to heal more comfortably. His skull was still burning fiercely. He wanted nothing more than to lay down now until he stopped breathing and his life was gone from him with his last miserable exhale. He threw himself at Red Rocket and climbed atop it, barely able to give it enough gas to propel him from the sandy beach.


	15. Final Parting

Final Parting

Red Rocket traveled blindly into the front gates, and with a loud collision, Dante rolled to his feet and half-ran, half-walked to the front door, banging frantically and calling for either Trish or Trinity to come to him. If he was too late he would not rest in this life or the next until he had his vengeance or got the death he deserved. He fell tiredly against the double doors, leaving streaky fingerprints wherever his hands touched. He was so sleepy. He heard frantic footsteps approaching on the other side.

"Thank you, Mr. Dante."

He glanced up to greet the voice, and there, clinging to the side of the house like a hellish bat, was the Mediator, waiting for his prey to answer the door.

"No!"

The door swung open and in dashed the wicked entity, bleeding from his struggle with his obligation and tore through the entranceway like a whirlwind. Dante charged in after him, eager to simply place his hands on him: he would rip him like paper and send his two halves back to the hell that sent him. The Mediator jerked awkwardly in flight, hovered above the staircase momentarily before he got his bearings.

Dante had sword in hand before that happened, and The Mediator caught the strict edge of Alastor right between the brows so terribly he was torn from flight and pinned to the wall.

Trish had opened the door, in a stupor, all had transpired so quickly, that she fought to escape to an adjacent room to cover herself.

Dante tried to scramble upstairs whilst he had the upper hand, but The Mediator had plucked the sword from his forehead so quickly and swung it at him before he was half-way up. He bulldozed down the hall, barging from room to room in a bitter and unyielding search for Trinity that when he found her she had already heard him coming; and she zipped by him so quickly that he had barely recognized her passing. His wings too massive for the unaccommodating halls, his about face was slow enough so that Dante could intercept the sword he jutted out at her. He felt the head dive into him and exit, but it had been thrust so forcefully that he fell back and felt his back collide with Trinity's as she fled. The Mediator didn't miss a beat, and he shrieked downstairs destroying all in his path.

"Trinity! Stay put!" He rolled from her and trailed him downstairs, guided by his path of destruction. The door to Trish's sanctuary was ripped from its hinges, and he had seized Trish by the throat and had her dangling long before Dante got into the room. Dante threw himself at him without thinking and sent him spiraling across the room with a single punch. Trish dropped like a brick, and The Mediator spread his bleeding wings across the span of the room to steady himself. But Dante was upon him like fallen prey, and he tackled him to the back window with what might he had left. Success came to him in the sound of broken glass, and The Mediator's black wings were sucked backwards and toward the sky as if he were caught in the pull of a vacuum. His eyes tore open wide and he latched onto Dante to try and anchor himself, but he found another fist in his direction. In the blink of an eye he was sucked backwards into the blue-black sky, a fading dot growing fainter by the distance, his cries of protest fading to an echo.

"Trish!"

He dashed to her body and lifted her head to his lap, his eyes swollen with fright. He pulled her hair back from his face with trembling hands and surveyed the handprints about her tender neck, raw with abuse, but when her chest rose and fell with a desperate breath, he buried himself in her and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He sat her up gently, grateful for her embrace because it meant life. He pulled away first.

"Are you alright?" She touched his face gently, appalled at the damage. Dante gently removed her hand, only imagining what he looked like. He didn't answer.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

She nodded. "I'm fine." He turned away from her and placed a hand over his heaving stomach a second time, and threw up whatever was left in him—another clotted red muddle of blood and vomit.

"Trinity…" He staggered to his feet and exited to the entranceway and up the stairs to find that she was lying exactly as he'd left her.

"Trin," he called gently, Trish at his heels. He knelt down to her and placed a concerned hand on her shoulder and rolled her over. He did not half expect to see a seeping wound and his eyes tore open in surprise and realization that the sword that went through him had pierced her.

"Oh no, Trinity, wake up!" He lifted her to his lap and shook her limp body. "Trinity!"

She half opened her eyes in response to him. Trish looked her over agape. "Dante…she's hurt good."

He rested his back against the nearest wall and cradled her in his arms, frantically trying to keep her awake. Panic swept him quickly—there was no hiding his concern or dread for her.

"Call a doctor, Trish. She needs help."

Both she and Trish shook their heads in protest. "Dante…we can't…"

"No, _I_ can't see a doctor, but she's not like me…" He raised his head to look at her, his eyes ridden with fright, his hands moving about her frantically to mask how they trembled. "She'll die, Trish!"

Trinity managed to force a smile that was all but convincing. "It's not so bad…" She tried not to tremble, but she couldn't fight reaction her body took to this wound.

Dante ignored her. "Go, Trish. I'll stay here with her. Find anyone."

Trish sighed heavily, frightened for Trinity, unbelievably, because she had seen what effects she had on Dante and she wept for him and shared his compassions, and because she knew that a medical doctor would raise eyebrows at the explanation she would have to make up. Not all had faith in, or believed in the supernatural. But neither she, Dante or Trinity were natural. She, despite herself, agreed to find help. She only hoped she would return to the same scene of tenderness and a pulse to work with.

When Trish had left them alone, Dante felt that he could tear off his calloused mask and be fragile. The woman he held dying in his arms made him _weak,_ she made him tremble, and now she made him cry. Something he had only done twice in his life. He raised a hand to smear the bloody tear that ran down his cheek. He looked down when he felt her hand wrap around his.

"…you can't stay awake all night…" She whispered, silently in apprehension for her own fate. It took him a moment to find his bearings, swallow the lump in his throat and chase away the tearful voice that would give away his calm and respond to her.

"I can. Just don't go to sleep on me." He barely believed himself as he leaned his head back against the wall. He pretended that that the blood silently moistening his lap and staining the floor beneath them didn't belong to either of them. But he was fighting death himself, staying awake so that she could live, but if she died in his arms he would willingly succumb to the eternal slumber that dragged his lids shut. For now he blinked it away.

"Don't sleep…" he warned, pulling her closer to his chest. She winced in pain but nodded, feeling her own faint heartbeat beating in rhythm with his. He closed his eyes. "Don't go to sleep, and don't close your eyes. Talk to me." She nodded again.

"Say anything..."

She spoke to him so sweetly, saying words that drifted him to his subconscious, and he listened until he could no longer feel her in his arms.

Author's Note: I will gladly complete this if desired.


End file.
